MARY  ROBERTS  RINEHART 


K 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

"Ma"  Cran<Ull 


MARY  ROBERTS  RINEHART'S 
ROMANCE  BOOK 


MARY  ROBERTS  RINEHART'S 

ROMANCE  BOOK 


"K" 

THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 
THE  STREET  OF  SEVEN  STARS 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP  p»tu.ie»  New  York 


COPYRIGHT,    1914,    1915,    1918,   BY    MARY   ROBERTS   RINEHART 
PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


CHAPTER   I 


THE  Street  stretched  away  north  and  south  in  two 
lines  of  ancient  houses  that  seemed  to  meet  in  the 
distance.  The  man  found  it  infinitely  inviting.  It 
had  the  well-worn  look  of  an  old  coat,  shabby  but 
comfortable.  The  thought  of  coming  there  to  live 
pleased  him.  Surely  here  would  be  peace  —  long 
evenings  in  which  to  read,  quiet  nights  in  which  to 
sleep  and  forget.  It  was  an  impression  of  home, 
really,  that  it  gave.  The  man  did  not  know  that, 
or  care  particularly.  He  had  been  wandering  about 
a  long  time  —  not  in  years,  for  he  was  less  than 
thirty.  But  it  seemed  a  very  long  time. 

At  the  little  house  no  one  had  seemed  to  think 
about  references.  He  could  have  given  one  or  two, 
of  a  sort.  He  had  gone  to  considerable  trouble  to  get 
them ;  and  now,  not  to  have  them  asked  for  — 

There  was  a  house  across  and  a  little  way  down 
the  Street,  with  a  card  in  the  window  that  said: 
"Meals,  twenty-five  cents."  Evidently  the  midday 
meal  was  over ;  men  who  looked  like  clerks  and  small 
shopkeepers  were  hurrying  away.  The  Nottinghair 


curtains  were  pinned  back,  and  just  inside  the  win« 
dow  a  throaty  barytone  was  singing: 

"Home  is  the  hunter,  home  from  the  hill: 
And  the  sailor,  home  from  sea." 

Across  the  Street,  the  man  smiled  grimly.  Home! 

For  perhaps  an  hour  Joe  Dmmmond  had  been 
wandering  up  and  down  the  Street.  His  straw  hat 
was  set  on  the  back  of  his  head,  for  the  evening  was 
warm;  his  slender  shoulders,  squared  and  resolute 
at  eight,  by  nine  had  taken  on  a  disconsolate  droop. 
Under  a  street  lamp  he  consulted  his  watch,  but 
even  without  that  he  knew  what  the  hour  was. 
Prayer  meeting  at  the  corner  church  was  over;  boys 
of  his  own  age  were  ranging  themselves  along  the 
curb,  waiting  for  the  girl  of  the  moment.  When  she 
came,  a  youth  would  appear  miraculously  beside 
her,  and  the  world-old  pairing  off  would  have  taken 
place. 

The  Street  emptied.  The  boy  wiped  the  warm 
band  of  his  hat  and  slapped  it  on  his  head  again0 
She  was  always  treating  him  like  this  —  keeping 
him  hanging  about,  and  then  coming  out,  perfectly 
calm  and  certain  that  he  would  still  be  waiting.  By 
George,  he'd  fool  her,  for  once:  he'd  go  away,  and 
let  her  worry.  She  would  worry.  She  hated  to  hurt 
any  one.  Ah! 

Across  the  Street,  under  an  old  ailanthus  tree,  was 
the  house  he  watched,  a  small  brick,  with  shallow 
wooden  steps  and  —  curious  architecture  of  the 

2 


Middle  West  sixties  —  a  wooden  cellar  door  beside 
the  steps. 

In  some  curious  way  it  preserved  an  air  of  distinc- 
tion among  its  more  pretentious  neighbors,  much 
as  a  very  old  lady  may  now  and  then  lend  tone  to 
a  smart  gathering.  On  either  side  of  it,  the  taller 
houses  had  an  appearance  of  protection  rather  than 
of  patronage.  It  was  a  matter  of  self-respect,  per- 
haps. No  windows  on  the  Street  were  so  spotlessly 
curtained,  no  doormat  so  accurately  placed,  nc 
"yard "  in  the  *^ar  so  tidy  with  morning-glory  vinec 
over  the  whitewashed  fence. 

The  June  moon  had  risen,  sending  broken  shafts 
of  white  light  through  the  ailanthus  to  the  house 
door.  When  the  girl  came  at  last,  she  stepped  out 
into  a  world  of  soft  lights  and  wavering  shadows, 
fragrant  with  tree  blossoms  not  yet  overpowering, 
hushed  of  its  daylight  sounds  of  playing  children 
and  moving  traffic. 

The  house  had  been  warm.  Her  brown  hair  lay 
moist  on  her  forehead,  her  thin  white  dress  was 
turned  in  at  the  throat.  She  stood  on  the  steps,  the 
door  closed  behind  her,  and  threw  out  her  arms  in  a 
swift  gesture  to  the  cool  air.  The  moonlight  clothed 
her  as  with  a  garment.  From  across  the  Street  the 
boy  watched  her  with  adoring,  humble  eyes.  All 
his  courage  was  for  those  hours  when  he  was  not 
with  her. 

"Hello,  Joe." 

"Hello,  Sidney." 

3 


He  crossed  over,  emerging  out  of  the  shadows 
into  her  enveloping  radiance.  His  ardent  young 
eyes  worshiped  her  as  he  stood  on  the  pavement. 

"  I  'm  late.  I  was  taking  out  bastings  for  mother." 

"Oh,  that 'sail  right." 

Sidney  sat  down  on  the  doorstep,  and  the  boy 
dropped  at  her  feet. 

"  I  thought  of  going  to  prayer  meeting,  but  mother 
was  tired.  Was  Christine  there?" 

"Yes;  Palmer  Howe  took  her  home." 

He  was  at  his  ease  now.  He  had  discarded  his  hat, 
and  lay  back  on.his  elbows,  ostensibly  to  look  at  the 
moon.  Actually  his  brown  eyes  rested  on  the  face 
of  the  girl  above  him.  He  was  very  happy. 

"He's  crazy  about  Chris.  She's  good-lookmg, 
but  she's  not  my  sort." 

"Pray,  what  is  your  sort?" 

"You." 

She  laughed  softly.   "You're  a  goose,  Joe!" 

She  settled  herself  more  comfortably  on  the  door- 
step and  drew  a  long  breath. 

"How  tired  I  am!    Oh  —  I  haven't  told  you 
We've  taken  a  roomer!" 

"A  what?" 

"A  roomer."  She  was  half  apologetic.  The  Street 
did  not  approve  of  roomers.  "  It  will  help  with  the 
rent.  It's  my  doing,  really.  Mother  is  scandalized." 

"A  woman?" 

"A  man." 

"What  sort  of  man?" 


"How  do  I  know?  He  is  coming  to-night.  I  '11  tell 
you  in  a  week." 

Joe  was  sitting  bolt  upright  now,  a  little  white. 

"  Is  he  young?" 

"He's  a  good  bit  older  than  you,  but  that's  not 
saying  he's  old." 

Joe  was  twenty-one,  and  sensitive  of  his  youth. 

"He'll  be  crazy  about  you  in  two  days." 

She  broke  into  delighted  laughter. 

"  I  '11  not  fall  in  love  with  him  —  you  can  be  cer- 
tain of  that.  He  is  tall  and  very  solemn.  His  hair 
is  quite  gray  over  his  ears." 

Joe  cheered. 

"What's  his  name?" 

"K.  LeMoyne." 

"K.?" 

"That's  what  he  said." 

Interest  in  the  roomer  died  away.  The  boy  fell 
into  the  ecstasy  of  content  that  always  came  with 
Sidney's  presence.  His  inarticulate  young  soul  was 
swelling  with  thoughts  that  he  did  not  know  how 
to  put  into  words.  It  was  easy  enough  to  plan  con- 
versations with  Sidney  when  he  was  away  from  her. 
But,  at  her  feet,  with  her  soft  skirts  touching  him 
as  she  moved,  her  eager  face  turned  to  him,  he  was 
miserably  speechless. 

Unexpectedly,  Sidney  yawned.  He  was  outraged. 

"  If  you  're  sleepy  — 

"Don't  be  silly.  I  love  having  you.  I  sat  up  late 
last  night,  reading.  I  wonder  what  you  think  of  this: 

5. 


ane  of  the  characters  in  the  book  I  was  reading  says 
that  every  man  who  —  who  cares  for  a  woman  leaves 
his  mark  on  her!  I  suppose  she  tries  to  become  what 
he  thinks  she  is,  for  the  time  anyhow,  and  is  never 
just  her  old  self  again." 

She  said  "cares  for"  instead  of  "loves."  It  is  one 
of  the  traditions  of  youth  to  avoid  the  direct  issue 
in  life's  greatest  game.  Perhaps  "love"  is  left  to 
the  fervent  vocabulary  of  the  lover.  Certainly,  as 
if  treading  on  dangerous  ground,  Sidney  avoided  it. 

"Every  man!  How  many  men  are  supposed  to 
care  for  a  woman,  anyhow?" 

"Well,  there's  the  boy  who  —  likes  her  when 
they're  both  young." 

A  bit  of  innocent  mischief  this,  but  Joe  straight- 
ened. 

"Then  they  both  outgrow  that  foolishness.  After 
that  there  are  usually  two  rivals,  and  she  marries 
one  of  them  —  that 's  three.  And  — " 

"Why  do  they  always  outgrow  that  foolishness?'' 
His  voice  was  unsteady. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  One's  ideas  change.  Any- 
how, I  'm  only  telling  you  what  the  book  said." 

"It's  a  silly  book." 

"  I  don't  believe  it's  true,"  she  confessed.  "When 
I  got  started  I  just  read  on.  I  was  curious." 

More  eager  than  curious,  had  she  only  known. 
She  was  fairly  vibrant  with  the  zest  of  living.  Sit- 
ting on  the  steps  of  the  little  brick  house,  her  busy 
mind  was  carrying  her  on  to  where,  beyond  the 

6 


r 


Street,  with  its  dingy  lamps  and  blossoming  ailan> 
thus,  lay  the  world  that  was  some  day  to  lie  to  he* 
hand.  Not  ambition  called  her,  but  life. 

The  boy  was  different.  Where  her  future  lay  visu- 
alized  before  her,  heroic  deeds,  great  ambitions: 
wide  charity,  he  planned  years  with  her,  selfish,  con^ 
tented  years.  As  different  as  smug,  satisfied  sum- 
mer from  visionary,  palpitating  spring,  he  was  fcr 
her  —  but  she  was  for  all  the  world. 

By  shifting  his  position  his  lips  came  close  to  hei 
bare  young  arm.  It  tempted  him. 

"Don't  read  that  nonsense,"  he  said,  his  eyes  or* 
the  arm.    "And  —  I'll  never  outgrow  my  foolish 
ness  about  you,  Sidney." 

Then,  because  he  could  not  help  it,  he  bent  ovej 
and  kissed  her  arm. 

She  was  just  eighteen,  and  Joe's  devotion  was  very 
pleasant.  She  thrilled  to  the  touch  of  his  lips  oij. 
her  flesh;  but  she  drew  her  arm  away. 

"  Please  —  I  don't  like  that  sort  of  thing/1 

"Why  not?"  His  voice  was  husky. 

"  It  isn't  right.  Besides,  the  neighbors  are  always 
ooking  out  of  the  windows." 

The  drop  from  her  high  standard  of  right  and 
v^rong  to  the  neighbors'  curiosity  appealed  suddenly 
to  her  sense  of  humor.  She  threw  back  her  head  and 
laughed.  He  joined  her,  after  an  uncomfortable 
moment.  But  he  was  very  much  in  earnest.  He  sat 
'oent  forward,  turning  his  new  straw  hat  in  his  hands 

"  I  guess  you  know  how  I  feel.  Some  of  the  fellows 

7 


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have  crushes  on  girls  and  get  over  them.  I'm  not 
like  that.  Since  the  first  day  I  saw  you  I  Ve  never 
looked  at  another  girl.  Books  can  say  what  they 
like:  there  are  people  like  that,  and  I'm  one  of 


There  was  a  touch  of  dogged  pathos  in  his  voice. 
He  was  that  sort,  and  Sidney  knew  it.  Fidelity  and 
'tenderness  —  those  would  be  hers  if  she  married 
tiim.  He  would  always  be  there  when  she  wanted 
him,  looking  at  her  with  loving  eyes,  a  trifle  wistful 
sometimes  because  of  his  lack  of  those  very  qualities 
he  so  admired  in  her  —  her  wit,  her  resourcefulness, 
her  humor.  But  he  would  be  there,  not  strong,  per- 
haps, but  always  loyal. 

"I  thought,  perhaps,"  said  Joe,  growing  red  and 
white,  and  talking  to  the  hat,  "that  some  day, 
when  we  're  older,  you  —  you  might  be  willing  to 
marry  me,  Sid.  I  'd  be  awfully  good  to  you." 

It  hurt  her  to  say  no.  Indeed,  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  say  it.  In  all  her  short  life  she  had  never 
willfully  inflicted  a  wound.  And  because  she  was 
young,  and  did  not  realize  that  there  is  a  short  cru- 
elty, like  the  surgeon's,  that  is  mercy  in  the  end,  she 
temporized. 

"There  is  such  a  lot  of  time  before  we  need  think 
of  such  things  !  Can't  we  just  go  on  the  way  we  are?  " 

"  I  'm  not  very  happy  the  way  we  are." 

"Why,  Joe!" 

"Well,  I'm  not"  —  doggedly.  "You're  pretty 
and  attractive.  When  I  see  a  fellow  staring  at  you, 

8 


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and  I  'd  like  to  smash  his  face  for  him,  I  have  n't  the 
right." 

"And  a  precious  good  thing  for  you  that  you 
have  n't!"  cried  Sidney,  rather  shocked. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  between  them, 
Sidney,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  obsessed  by  a  vision  of 
Joe,  young  and  hot-eyed,  being  haled  to  the  police 
station  by  virtue  of  his  betrothal  responsibilities. 
The  boy  was  vacillating  between  relief  at  having 
spoken  and  a  heaviness  of  spirit  that  came  from 
Sidney's  lack  of  enthusiastic  response. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  about  it?" 

"If  you  are  asking  me  to  give  you  permission  to 
waylay  and  assault  every  man  who  dares  to  look  at 
me—" 

41 1  guess  this  is  all  a  joke  to  you." 

She  leaned  over  and  put  a  tender  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you;  but,  Joe,  I  don't  want 
to  be  engaged  yet.  I  don't  want  to  think  about 
marrying.  There's  such  a  lot  to  do  in  the  world 
first.  There's  such  a  lot  to  see  and  be." 

"Where?"  he  demanded  bitterly.  "Here  on  this 
Street?  Do  you  want  more  time  to  pull  bastings  for 
your  mother?  Or  to  slave  for  your  Aunt  Harriet? 
Or  to  run  up  and  down  stairs,  carrying  towels  to 
roomers?  Marry  me  and  let  me  take  care  of  you." 

Once  again  her  dangerous  sense  of  humor  threat- 
ened her.  He  looked  so  boyish,  sitting  there  with  the 
moonlight  on  his  bright  hair,  so  inadequate  to  carry 
out  his  magnificent  offer.  Two  or  three  of  the  star 

9 


blossoms  from  the  tree  had  fallen  on  his  head.  She 
lifted  them  carefully  away. 

"Let  me  take  care  of  myself  for  a  while.  I've 
never  lived  my  own  life.  You  know  what  I  mean. 
I  'm  not  unhappy ;  but  I  want  to  do  something.  And 
some  day  I  shall,  —  not  anything  big;  I  know  I 
can't  do  that,  —  but  something  useful.  Then,  after 
years  and  years,  if  you  still  want  me,  I  '11  come  back 
to  you." 

"How  soon?" 

"How  can  I  know  that  now?  But  it  will  be  a  long 
time." 

He  drew  a  long  breath  and  got  up.  All  the  joy  had 
gone  out  of  the  summer  night  for  him,  poor  lad-  He 
glanced  down  the  Street,  where  Palmer  Howe  had 
gone  home  happily  with  Sidney's  friend  Christine. 
Palmer  would  always  know  how  he  stood  with 
Christine.  She  would  never  talk  about  doing  things, 
or  being  things.  Either  she  would  marry  Palmer  or 
she  would  not.  But  Sidney  was  not  like  that.  A  fel- 
low did  not  even  caress  her  easily.  When  he  had  only 
kissed  her  arm  —  He  trembled  a  little  at  the  memory. 

"  I  shall  always  want  you,"  he  said.  "  Only — you 
will  never  come  back." 

It  had  not  occurred  to  either  of  them  that  this 
coming  back,  so  tragically  considered,  was  depend- 
ent on  an  entirely  problematical  going  away.  Noth- 
ing, that  early  summer  night,  seemed  more  unlikeiy 
than  that  Sidney  would  ever  be  free  to  live  her  own 
Uie.  The  Street,  stretching  away  to  the  north  and  to- 

10 


the  south  in  two  lines  of  houses  that  seemed  to  meet 
in  the  distance,  hemmed  her  in.  She  had  been  born 
in  the  little  brick  house,  and,  as  she  was  of  it,  so  it 
was  of  her.  Her  hands  had  smoothed  and  painted 
the  pine  floors;  her  hands  had  put  up  the  twine  on 
which  the  morning-glories  in  the  yard  covered  the 
fences;  had,  indeed,  with  what  agonies  of  slacking 
lime  and  adding  blueing,  whitewashed  the  fence  it- 
self! 

"She's  capable,"  Aunt  Harriet  had  grumblingly 
admitted,  watching  from  her  sewing-machine  Sid- 
ney's strong  young  arms  at  this  humble  spring  task. 

"She's  wonderful!"  her  mother  had  said,  as  she 
bent  over  her  hand  work.  She  was  not  strong  enough 
to  run  the  sewing-machine. 

So  Joe  Drummond  stood  on  the  pavement  and 
saw  his  dream  of  taking  Sidney  in  his  arms  fade  into 
an  indefinite  futurity. 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  give  you  up,"  he  said  doggedly. 
*'When  you  come  back,  I'll  be  waiting." 

The  shock  being  over,  and  things  only  postponed, 
he  dramatized  his  grief  a  trifle,  thrust  his  hands 
savagely  into  his  pockets,  and  scowled  down  the 
Street.  In  the  line  of  his  vision,  his  quick  eye  caught 
a  tiny  moving  shadow,  lost  it,  found  it  again. 

"Great  Scott!  There  goes  Reginald!"  he  cried, 
and  ran  after  the  shadow. 

"Watch  for  the  McKees'  cat!" 

Sidney  was  running  by  that  time ;  they  were  gain- 
ing. Their  quarry,  a  four-inch  chipmunk,  hesitated, 

ii 


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gave  a  protesting  squeak,  and  was  caught  in  Sidney's 
hand. 

"You  wretch!"  she  cried.  "You  miserable  little 
beast  —  with  cats  everywhere,  and  not  a  nut  for 
miles!" 

"That  reminds  me,"  — Joe  put  a  hand  into  his 
pocket,  —  "I  brought  some  chestnuts  for  him,  and 
forgot  them.  Here." 

Reginald's  escape  had  rather  knocked  the  tragedy 
out  of  the  evening.  True,  Sidney  would  not  marry 
him  for  years,  but  she  had  practically  promised  to 
sometime.  And  when  one  is  twenty-one,  and  it  is  a 
summer  uight,  and  life  stretches  eternities  ahead, 
what  are  a  lew  years  more  or  less? 

Sidney  was  holding  the  tiny  squirrel  in  warm,  pro- 
tecting hands.  She  smiled  up  at  the  boy. 

"Good-night,  Joe." 

"Good-night.  I  say,  Sidney,  it's  more  than  half 
an  engagement.  Won't  you  kiss  me  good-night?" 

She  hesitated,  flushed  and  palpitating.  Kisses 
were  rare  in  the  staid  little  household  to  which  she 
belonged. 

"I  — I  think  not." 

"  Please !  I'm  not  very  happy,  and  it  will  be  some- 
thing to  remember." 

Perhaps,  after  all,  Sidney's  first  kiss  would  have 
gone  without  her  heart,  —  which  was  a  thing  she 
had  determined  would  never  happen,  —  gone  out  of 
sheer  pity.  But  a  tall  figure  loomed  out  of  the 
shadows  and  approached  with  quick  strides. 

12 


<:The  roomer!"  cried  Sidney,  and  backed  away. 

"Damn  the  roomer!" 

Poor  Joe,  with  the  summer  evening  quite  spoiled, 
with  no  caress  to  remember,  and  with  a  potential 
rival,  who  possessed  both  the  years  and  the  inches 
he  lacked,  coming  up  the  Street! 

The  roomer  advanced  steadily.  When  he  reached 
the  doorstep,  Sidney  was  demurely  seated  and  quite 
alone.  The  roomer,  who  had  walked  fast,  stopped 
and  took  off  his  hat.  He  looked  very  warm.  He 
carried  a  suit-case,  which  was  as  it  should  be.  The 
men  of  the  Street  always  carried  their  own  luggage, 
except  the  younger  Wilson  across  the  way.  His 
tastes  were  known  to  be  luxurious. 

"Hot,  is  ri't  it?"  Sidney  inquired,  after  a  formal 
greeting.  She  indicated  the  place  on  the  step  just 
vacated  by  Joe.  "You'd  better  cool  off  out  here. 
The  house  is  like  an  oven.  I  think  I  should  have 
warned  you  of  that  before  you  took  the  room.  These 
little  houses  with  low  roofs  are  fearfully  hot." 

The  new  roomer  hesitated.  The  steps  were  very 
low,  and  he  was  tall.  Besides,  he  did  not  care  to  es- 
tablish any  relations  with  the  people  in  the  house* 
Long  evenings  in  which  to  read,  quiet  nights  in 
which  to  sleep  and  forget  —  these  were  the  things 
he  had  come  for. 

But  Sidney  had  moved  over  and  was  smiling  up  at 
him.  He  folded  up  awkwardly  on  the  low  step.  He 
seemed  much  too  big  for  the  house.  Sidney  had  a 
panicky  thought  of  the  little  room  upstairs. 

13 


K. 


*'  I  don't  mind  heat.  I  —  I  suppose  I  don't  think 
about  it,"  said  the  roomer,  rather  surprised  at  him- 
self. 

Reginald,  having  finished  his  chestnut,  squeaked 
for  another.  The  roomer  started. 

"Just  Reginald  —  my  ground-squirrel."  Sidney 
was  skinning  a  nut  with  her  strong  white  teeth. 
"That's  another  thing  I  should  have  told  you.  I  'IB 
afraid  you'll  be  sorry  you  took  the  room." 

The  roomer  smiled  in  the  shadow. 

"  I  'm  beginning  to  think  that  you  are  sorry." 

She  was  all  anxiety  to  reassure  him :  — 

" It's  because  of  Reginald.  He  lives  under  my  — - 
under  your  bureau.  He's  really  not  troublesome; 
but  he 's  building  a  nest  under  the  bureau,  and  if  you 
don't  know  about  him,  it's  rather  unsettling  to  see  a 
paper  pattern  from  the  sewing-room,  or  a  piece  of 
cloth,  moving  across  the  floor." 

Mr.  Le  Moyne  thought  it  might  be  very  interest- 
ing. "Although,  if  there's  nest-building  going  onf 
is  n't  it  —  er  —  possible  that  Reginald  is  a  lady 
ground-squirrel?  " 

Sidney  was  rather  distressed,  and,  seeing  this,  he 
hastened  to  add  that,  for  all  he  knew,  all  ground- 
squirrels  built  nests,  regardless  of  sex.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  it  developed  that  he  knew  nothing  what- 
ever of  ground-squirrels.  Sidney  was  relieved.  She 
chatted  gayly  of  the  tiny  creature  —  of  his  rescue  in 
the  woods  from  a  crowd  of  little  boys,  of  his  restora- 
tion to  health  and  spirits,  and  of  her  expectation, 


when  he  was  quite  strong,  of  taking  him  to  the  woods 
and  freeing  him. 

Le  Moyne,  listening  attentively,  began  to  be  in- 
terested. His  quick  mind  had  grasped  the  fact  that 
it  was  the  girl's  bedroom  he  had  taken.  Other  things 
he  had  gathered  that  afternoon  from  the  humming 
of  a  sewing-machine,  from  Sidney's  businesslike 
way  of  renting  the  little  room,  from  the  glimpse  of  a 
woman  in  a  sunny  window,  bent  over  a  needle.  Gen- 
teel poverty  was  what  it  meant,  and  more  —  the 
constant  drain  of  disheartened,  middle-aged  wo- 
luen  on  the  youth  and  courage  of  the  girl  beside 
him. 

K.  Le  Moyne,  who  was  living  his  own  tragedy 
those  days,  what  with  poverty  and  other  things,  sat 
on  the  doorstep  while  Sidney  talked,  and  swore  a 
quiet  oath  to  be  no  further  weight  on  the  girl's 
buoyant  spirit.  And,  since  determining  on  a  virtue 
is  halfway  to  gaining  it,  hi<  voice  lost  its  perfunctory 
note.  He  had  no  intention  of  letting  the  Street  en> 
croach  on  him.  He  had  built  up  a  wall  between 
himself  and  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  he  would  not 
scale  it.  But  he  held  no  grudge  against  it.  Let  others 
get  what  they  could  out  of  living. 

Sidney,  suddenly  practical,  broke  in  on  hi? 
thoughts:  — 

"Where  are  you  going  to  get  your  meals?" 

"I  had  n't  thought  about  it.  I  can  stop  in  some- 
where on  my  way  downtown.  I  work  in  the  gas 
office  —  I  don't  believe  I  told  you.  It's  rather  hap* 


hazard  —  not  the  gas  office,  but  the  eating.  How« 
ever,  it's  convenient." 

"It's  very  bad  for  you,"  said  Sidney,  with  deci- 
sion. "  It  leads  to  slovenly  habits,  such  as  going  with- 
out when  you  're  in  a  hurry,  and  that  sort  ot  thing. 
The  only  thing  is  to  have  some  one  expecting  you  at 
a  certain  time." 

"  It  sounds  like  marriage."  He  was  lazily  amused. 

"  It  sounds  like  Mrs.  McKee's  boarding-house  at 
the  corner.  Twenty-one  meals  for  five  dollars,  and  a 
ticket  to  punch.  Tillie,  the  dining-room  girl,  punches 
for  every  meal  you  get.  If  you  miss  any  meals,  your 
ticket  is  good  until  it  is  punched.  But  Mrs.  McKee 
does  n't  like  it  if  you  miss." 

"Mrs.  McKee  for  me,"  said  Le  Moyne.  "I  dare 
say,  if  I  know  that  —  er  —  Tillie  is  waiting  with  the 
punch,  I'll  be  fairly  regular  to  my  meals." 

It  was  growing  late.  The  Street,  which  mistrusted 
night  air,  even  on  a  hot  summer  evening,  was  closing 
its  windows.  Reginald,  having  eaten  his  fill,  had 
cuddled  in  the  warm  hollow  of  Sidney's  lap,  and 
slept.  By  shifting  his  position,  the  man  was  able  to 
see  the  girl's  face.  Very  lovely  it  was,  he  thought. 
Very  pure,  almost  radiant  —  and  young.  From  the 
middle  age  of  his  almost  thirty  years,  she  was  a  child. 
There  had  been  a  boy  in  the  shadows  when  he  came 
up  the  Street.  Of  course  there  would  be  a  boy  —  a 
nice,  clear-eyed  chap  — 

Sidney  was  looking  at  the  moon.  With  that  dream- 
er's part  of  her  that  she  had  inherited  from  her  dead 

16 


K 

-    —  g 


and  gone  father,  she  was  quietly  worshiping  the 
night.  But  her  busy  brain  was  working,  too,  —  the 
practical  brain  that  she  had  got  from  her  mother's 
side. 

"What  about  your  washing?"  she  inquired  un^ 
expectedly. 

K.  Le  Moyne,  who  had  built  a  wall  between  him- 
self and  the  world,  had  already  married  her  to  the 
youth  of  the  shadows,  and  was  feeling  an  odd  sense 
of  loss. 

"Washing?" 

"I  suppose  you've  been  sending  things  to  the 
laundry,  and  —  what  do  you  do  about  your  stock' 
ings?" 

"Buy  cheap  ones  and  throw  'em  away  when 
they're  worn  out."  There  seemed  to  be  no  reserve? 
with  this  surprising  young  person. 

"And  buttons?" 

"Use  safety-pins.  When  they're  closed  one  can 
button  over  them  as  well  as  — " 

"  I  think,"  said  Sidney,  "  that  it  is  quite  time  some 
one  took  a  little  care  of  you.  If  you  will  give  Katie, 
our  maid,  twenty-five  cents  a  week,  she'll  do  your 
washing  and  not  tear  your  things  to  ribbons.  And 
I'll  mend  them." 

Sheer  stupefaction  was  K.  Le  Moyne's.  After  a 
moment :  — 

"You're  really  rather  wonderful,  Miss  Page. 
Here  am  I,  lodged,  fed,  washed,  ironed,  and  mended 
for  seven  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents  a  week!" 

17 


"I  hope,"  said  Sidney  severely,  "that  you'll  put 
what  you  save  in  the  bank." 

He  was  still  somewhat  dazed  when  he  went  up  the 
narrow  staircase  to  his  swept  and  garnished  room. 
Never,  in  all  of  a  life  that  had  been  active,  —  until 
recently,  —  had  he  been  so  conscious  of  friendliness 
and  kindly  interest.  He  expanded  under  it.  Some 
of  the  tired  lines  left  his  face.  Under  the  gas  chande- 
lier, he  straightened  and  threw  out  his  arms.  Then 
he  reached  down  into  his  coat  pocket  and  drew  out 
a  wide-awake  and  suspicious  Reginald. 

"Good-night,  Reggie!"  he  said.  "Good-night, 
old  top!"  He  hardly  recognized  his  own  voice.  It 
was  quite  cheerful,  although  the  little  room  was  hot, 
and  although,  when  he  stood,  he  had  a  perilous  feel- 
ing that  the  ceiling  was  close  above.  He  deposited 
Reginald  carefully  on  the  floor  in  front  of  the  bureau, 
and  the  squirrel,  after  eyeing  him,  retreated  to  it? 
nest. 

It  was  late  when  K.  Le  Moyne  retired  to  bed. 
Wrapped  in  a  paper  and  securely  tied  for  the  morn- 
ing's disposal,  was  considerable  masculine  under- 
clothing, ragged  and  buttonless.  Not  for  worlds 
would  he  have  had  Sidney  discover  his  threadbare 
inner  condition. 

"New  underwear  for  yours  to-morrow,  K.  Le 
Moyne,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  unknotted  his 
cravat.  "New  underwear,  and  something  besides  K. 
for  a  first  name." 

He  pondered  over  that  for  a  time,  taking  off  his 

18 


shoes  slowly  and  thinking  hard.  "Kenneth,  King 
Kerr  — "  None  of  them  appealed  to  him.  And,, 
after  all,  what  did  it  matter?  The  old  heaviness 
came  over  him. 

He  dropped  a  shoe,  and  Reginald,  who  had  gained 
enough  courage  to  emerge  and  sit  upright  on  the 
fender,  fell  over  backward. 

Sidney  did  not  sleep  much  that  night.  She  lay 
awake,  gazing  into  the  scented  darkness,  her  arms 
under  her  head.  Love  had  come  into  her  lite  at  last, 
A  man  —  only  Joe,  of  course,  but  it  was  not  the  boy 
himself,  but  what  he  stood  for,  that  thrilled  her  - 
had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife. 

In  her  little  back  room,  with  the  sweetness  of  the 
tree  blossoms  stealing  through  the  open  window, 
Sidney  faced  the  great  mystery  of  life  and  love,  and 
flung  out  warm  young  arms.  Joe  would  be  thinking 
of  her  now,  as  she  thought  of  him.  Or  would  he  have 
gone  to  sleep,  secure  in  her  half  promise?  Did  he 
really  love  her? 

The  desire  to  be  loved !  There  was  coming  to  Sid- 
ney a  time  when  love  would  mean,  not  receiving, 
but  giving  —  the  divine  fire  instead  of  the  pale  flame 
of  youth.  At  last  she  slept. 

A  night  breeze  came  through  the  windows  and 
spread  coolness  through  the  little  house.  The  ailan= 
thus  tree  waved  in  the  moonlight  and  sent  sprawling 
shadows  over  the  wall  of  K,  Le  Moyne's  bedroom, 
In  the  yard  the  leaves  of  the  morning-glory  vines 
quivered  as  if  under  the  touch  of  a  friendly  hand.. 

T9 


K.  Le  Moyne  slept  diagonally  in  his  bed,  being 
very  long.  In  sleep  the  lines  were  smoothed  out  of 
his  face.  He  looked  like  a  tired,  overgrown  boy. 
And  while  he  slept  the  ground-squirrel  ravaged  the 
pockets  of  his  shabby  coat. 


CHAPTER  II 

SIDNEY  could  not  remember  when  her  Aunt  Har- 
riet had  not  sat  at  the  table.  It  was  one  of  her  earli- 
est disillusionments  to  learn  that  Aunt  Harriet 
lived  with  them,  not  because  she  wished  to,  but  be- 
cause Sidney's  father  had  borrowed  her  small 
patrimony  and  she  was  "boarding  it  out." 

Eighteen  years  she  had  "boarded  it  out."  Sidney 
had  been  born  and  grown  to  girlhood ;  the  dreamer 
father  had  gone  to  his  grave,  with  valuable  patents 
lost  for  lack  of  money  to  renew  them — gone  with 
his  faith  in  himself  destroyed,  but  with  his  faith  in 
the  world  undiminished :  for  he  left  his  wife  and 
daughter  without  a  dollar  of  life  insurance. 

Harriet  Kennedy  had  voiced  her  own  view  of  the 
matter,  the  day  after  the  funeral,  to  one  of  the 
neighbors : — 

"He  left  no  insurance.  Why  should  he  bother? 
He  left  me." 

To  the  little  widow,  her  sister,  she  had  been  no 
less  bitter,  and  more  explicit. 

"It  looks  to  me,  Anna,"  she  said,  "as  if  by  bor- 
rowing everything  I  had  George  had  bought  me, 
body  and  soul,  for  the  rest  of  my  natural  life.  I  '11 
stay  now  until  Sidney  is  able  to  take  hold.  Then 
I  'm  going  to  live  my  own  life.  It  will  be  a  little 
late,  but  the  Kennedys  live  a  long  time." 

21 


The  day  of  Harriet's  leaving  had  seemed  far  awa>- 
to  Anna  Page.  Sidney  was  still  her  baby,  a  pretty, 
rather  leggy  girl,  in  her  first  year  at  the  High  School, 
prone  to  saunter  home  with  three  or  four  knicker- 
bockered  boys  in  her  train,  reading  "The  Duchess" 
stealthily,  and  begging  for  longer  dresses.  She  had 
given  up  her  dolls,  but  she  still  made  clothes  for 
them  out  of  scraps  from  Harriet's  sewing-room.  In 
the  parlance  of  the  Street,  Harriet  "sewed"  -  and 
sewed  well. 

She  had  taken  Anna  into  business  with  her,  but 
the  burden  of  the  partnership  had  always  been  on 
Harriet.  To  give  her  credit,  she  had  not  complained. 
She  was  past  forty  by  that  time,  and  her  youth  had 
slipped  by  in  that  back  room  with  its  dingy  wall- 
paper covered  with  paper  patterns. 

On  the  day  after  the  arrival  of  the  roomer,  Harriet 
Kennedy  came  down  to  breakfast  a  little  late.  Katie, 
the  general  housework  girl,  had  tied  a  small  white 
apron  over  her  generous  gingham  one,  and  was  serv- 
ing breakfast.  From  the  kitchen  came  the  clump  of 
an  iron,  and  cheerful  singing.  Sidney  was  ironing 
napkins.  Mrs.  Page,  who  had  taken  advantage  of 
Harriet's  tardiness  to  read  the  obituary  column  in 
the  morning  paper,  dropped  it. 

But  Harriet  did  not  sit  down.  It  was  her  custom  to 
jerk  her  chair  out  and  drop  into  it,  as  if  she  grudged 
every  hour  spent  on  food.  Sidney,  not  hearing  the 
jerk,  paused  with  her  iron  in  air. 

"Sidney." 

22 


"Yes,  Aunt  Harriet." 

"Will  you  come  in,  please?" 

Katie  took  the  iron  from  her. 

"You  go.  She's  all  dressed  up,  and  she  does  n't 
want  any  coffee." 

So  Sidney  went  in.  It  was  to  her  that  Harriet 
made  her  speech :  — 

"Sidney,  when  your  father  died,  I  promised  to 
look  after  both  you  and  your  mother  until  you  were 
able  to  take  care  of  yourself.  That  was  five  years 
ago.  Of  course,  even  before  that  I  had  helped  to 
support  you." 

"If  you  would  only  have  your  coffee,  Harriet!" 

Mrs.  Page  sat  with  her  hand  on  the  handle  of  the 
old  silver-plated  coffee-pot.  Harriet  ignored  her. 

"You  are  a  young  woman  now.  You  have  health 
and  energy,  and  you  have  youth,  which  I  have  n't. 
I  'm  past  forty.  In  the  next  twenty  years,  at  the  out- 
side, I  VP  got  not  only  to  support  myself,  but  to  save 
something  to  keep  me  after  that,  if  I  live.  I  '11  prob- 
ably live  to  be  ninety.  I  don't  want  to  live  forever, 
but  I  Ve  always  played  in  hard  luck." 

Sidney  returned  her  gaze  steadily. 

"I  see.  Well,  Aunt  Harriet,  you're  quite  right, 
You've  been  a  saint  to  us,  but  if  you  want  to  gc 
away  - 

"Harriet!"  wailed  Mrs.  Page,  "you're  not  think' 
ing—" 

"Please,  mother." 

Harriet's  eyes  softened  as  she  looked  at  the  girl 

23 


"We  can  manage,"  said  Sidney  quietly.  "Well 
miss  you,  but  it's  time  we  learned  to  depend  on  our- 
selves." 

After  that,  in  a  torrent,  came  Harriet's  declaration 
of  independence.  And,  mixed  in  with  its  pathetic 
jumble  of  recriminations,  hostility  to  her  sister's 
dead  husband,  and  resentment  for  her  lost  years, 
came  poor  Harriet's  hopes  and  ambitions,  the  tragic 
plea  of  a  woman  who  must  substitute  for  the  optim- 
ism and  energy  of  youth  the  grim  determination  of 
middle  age. 

"  I  can  do  good  work,"  she  finished.  "  I  'm  full  of 
ideas,  if  I  could  get  a  chance  to  work  them  out.  But 
there 's  no  chance  here.  There  is  n't  a  woman  on  the 
Street  who  knows  real  clothes  when  she  sees  them. 
They  don't  even  know  how  to  wear  their  corsets. 
They  send  me  bundles  of  hideous  stuff,  with  needles 
and  shields  and  imitation  silk  for  lining,  and  when 
I  turn  out  something  worth  while  out  of  the  mess, 
they  think  the  dress  is  queer!" 

Mrs.  Page  could  not  get  back  of  Harriet's  revolt 
to  its  cause.  To  her,  Harriet  was  not  an  artist  plead- 
mg  for  her  art ;  she  was  a  sister  and  a  bread-winner 
deserting  her  trust. 

"I'm  sure,"  she  said  stiffly,  "we  paid  you  back 
every  cent  we  borrowed.  If  you  stayed  here  after 
George  died,  it  was  because  you  offered  to." 

Her  chin  worked.  She  fumbled  for  the  handker- 
chief at  her  belt.  But  Sidney  went  around  the  tabie 
and  flung  a  young  arm  over  her  aunt's  shoulders. 

24 


"Why  did  n't  you  say  all  that  a  year  ago  ?  We've 
been  selfish,  but  we're  not  as  bad  as  you  think.  And 
if  any  one  in  this  world  is  entitled  to  success,  you 
are.  Of  course  we'll  manage." 

Harriet's  iron  repression  almost  gave  way.  She 
covered  her  emotion  with  details : — 

"Mrs.  Lorenz  is  going  to  let  me  make  Christine 
some  things,  and  if  hey're  all  right  I  may  make  her 
trousseau." 

"Trousseau — for  Christine!" 

"She's  not  engaged,  but  her  mother  says  it's  only 
a  matter  of  a  short  time.  I'm  going  to  take  two 
rooms  in  the  business  part  of  town,  and  put  a  couch 
in  the  back  room  to  sleep  on." 

Sidney's  mind  flew  to  Christine  and  her  bright 
future,  to  a  trousseau  bought  with  the  Lorenz 
money,  to  Christine  settled  down,  a  married 
woman,  with  Palmer  Howe.  She  came  back  with 
an  effort.  Harriet  had  two  triangular  red  spots  in 
her  sallow  cheeks. 

"I  can  get  a  few  good  models — that's  the  only 
way  to  start.  And  if  you  care  to  do  hand  work  for 
me,  Anna,  I'll  send  it  to  you,  and  pay  you  the  regu- 
lar rates.  There  is  n't  the  call  for  it  there  used  to  be, 
but  just  a  touch  gives  dash." 

All  of  Mrs.  Page's  grievances  had  worked  their 
way  to  the  surface.  Sidney  and  Harriet  had  made 
her  world,  such  as  it  was,  and  her  world  was  in  re- 
volt. She  flung  out  her  hands. 

"I  suppose  I  must  do  something.  With  you  leav- 
25 


ing,  and  Sidney  renting  her  room  and  sleeping  on  a 
folding-bed  in  the  sewing-room,  everything  seems 
upside  down.  I  never  thought  I  should  live  to  see 
strange  men  running  in  and  out  of  this  house  and 
carrying  latch-keys." 

This  in  reference  to  Le  Moyne,  whose  tall  figure 
had  made  a  hurried  exit  some  time  before. 

Nothing  could  have  symbolized  Harriet's  revoU 
more  thoroughly  than  her  going  upstairs  after  a 
hurried  breakfast,  and  putting  on  her  hat  and  coat. 
She  had  heard  of  rooms,  she  said,  and  there  was 
nothing  urgent  in  the  work-room.  Her  eyes  were 
brighter  already  as  she  went  out.  Sidney,  kissing 
her  in  the  hall  and  wishing  her  luck,  realized  sud- 
denly what  a  burden  she  and  her  mother  must  have 
been  for  the  last  few  years.  She  threw  her  head  up 
proudly.  They  would  never  be  a  burden  again  — 
never,  as  long  as  she  had  strength  and  health ! 

By  evening  Mrs.  Page  had  worked  herself  into  a 
state  bordering  on  hysteria.  Harriet  was  out  most 
of  the  day.  She  came  in  at  three  o'clock,  and  Katie 
gave  her  a  cup  of  tea.  At  the  news  of  her  sister's 
condition,  she  merely  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"She'll  not  die,  Katie,"  she  said  calmly.  "But 
see  that  Miss  Sidney  eats  something,  and  if  she  is 
worried  tell  her  I  said  to  get  Dr.  Ed." 

Very  significant  of  Harriet's  altered  outlook  was 
this  casual  summoning  of  the  Street's  family  doctor. 
She  was  already  dealing  in  larger  figures.  A  sort  of 
recklessness  had  come  over  her  since  the  morning. 

26 


Already  she  was  learning  that  peace  of  mind  is  es- 
sential to  successful  endeavor.  Somewhere  Harriet 
had  read  a  quotation  from  a  Persian  poet;  she  could 
not  remember  it,  but  its  sense  had  stayed  with  hers 
"What  though  we  spill  a  few  grains  of  corn,  or 
drops  of  oil  from  the  cruse?  These  be  the  price  of 
peace." 

So  Harriet,  having  spilled  oil  from  her  cruse  in  the 
shape  of  Dr.  Ed,  departed  blithely.  The  recklessness 
of  pure  adventure  was  in  her  blood.  She  had  taken 
rooms  at  a  rental  that  she  determinedly  put  out  of 
her  mind,  and  she  was  on  her  way  to  buy  furniture. 
No  pirate,  fitting  out  a  ship  for  the  highways  of  the 
sea,  ever  experienced  more  guilty  and  delightful  ex- 
citement. 

The  afternoon  dragged  away.  Dr.  Ed  was  out  "on 
a  case"  and  might  not  be  in  until  evening.  Sidney 
sat  in  the  darkened  room  and  waved  a  fan  over  her 
mother's  rigid  form. 

At  half  after  five,  Johnny  Rosenfeld  from  the  alley, 
who  worked  for  a  florist  after  school,  brought  a  box 
of  roses  to  Sidney,  and  departed  grinning  impishly. 
He  knew  Joe,  had  seen  him  in  the  store.  Soon  the 
alley  knew  that  Sidney  had  received  a  dozen  Killar* 
ney  roses  at  three  dollars  and  a  half,  and  was  prol> 
ably  engaged  to  Joe  Drummond. 

"Dr.  Ed,"  said  Sidney,  as  ho  followed  her  down 
the  stairs,  "can  you  spare  the  time  to  talk  to  me  a 
little  while?" 


K, 


Perhaps  the  elder  Wilson  had  a  quick  vision  of 
the  crowded  office  waiting  across  the  Street;  but 
his  reply  was  prompt : — 

"Any  amount  of  time." 

Sidney  led  the  way  into  the  small  parlor,  where 
Joe's  roses,  refused  by  the  petulant  invalid  up- 
stairs, bloomed  alone." 

"First  of  all,"  said  Sidney,  "did  you  mean  what 
you  said  upstairs  ?" 

Dr.  Ed  thought  quickly. 

"Of  course;  but  what?" 

"You  said  I  was  a  born  nurse." 

The  Street  was  very  fond  of  Dr.  Ed.  It  did  not 
always  approve  of  him.  It  said — which  was  per- 
fectly true — that  he  had  sacrificed  himself  to  his 
brother's  career :  that,  for  the  sake  of  that  brilliant 
young  surgeon,  Dr.  Ed  had  done  without  wife  and 
children ;  that  to  send  him  abroad  he  had  saved  and 
skimped ;  that  he  still  went  shabby  and  drove  the  old 
buggy,  while  Max  drove  about  in  an  automobile 
<coupe.  Sidney,  not  at  all  of  the  stuff  martyrs  are 
made  of,  sat  in  the  scented  parlor  and,  remember- 
ing all  this,  was  ashamed  of  her  rebellion. 

"I'm  going  into  a  hospital,"  said  Sidney. 

Dr.  Ed  waited.  He  liked  to  have  all  the  symptoms 
before  he  made  a  diagnosis  or  ventured  an  opinion. 
So  Sidney,  trying  to  be  cheerful,  and  quite  uncon- 
scious of  the  anxiety  in  her  voice,  told  her  story. 

"It's  fearfully  hard  work,  of  course,"  he  com- 
mented, when  she  had  finished. 

28 


"So  is  anything  worth  while.  Look  at  the  way 
you  work!" 

Dr.  Ed  rose  and  wandered  around  the  room. 

"You're  too  young." 

"I'll  get  older." 

"I  don't  think  I  like  the  idea,"  he  said  at  last. 
"It's  splendid  work  for  an  older  woman.  But  it's 
life,  child — life  in  the  raw.  As  we  get  along  in  years 
we  lose  our  illusions — some  of  them,  not  all,  thank 
God.  But  for  you,  at  your  age,  to  be  brought  face 
to  face  with  things  as  they  are,  and  not  as  we  want 
them  to  be — it  seems  such  an  unnecessary  sacri- 
fice." 

"Don't  you  think,"  said  Sidney  bravely,  "that 
you  are  a  poor  person  to  talk  of  sacrifice  ?  Have  n't 
you  always,  all  your  life — " 

Dr.  Ed  colored  to  the  roots  of  his  straw-colored 
hair. 

"Certainly  not,"  he  said  almost  irritably.  "Max 
had  genius;  I  had — ability.  That's  different.  One 
real  success  is  better  than  two  halves.  Not" — he 
smiled  down  at  her — "not  that  I  minimize  my  use- 
fulness. Somebody  has  to  do  the  hack-work,  and,  if 
I  do  say  it  myself,  I'm  a  pretty  good  hack." 

"Very  well,"  said  Sidney.  "Then  I  shall  be  a 
hack,  too.  Of  course,  I  had  thought  of  other  things, 
— my  father  wanted  me  to  go  to  college, — but  I'm 
strong  and  willing.  And  one  thing  I  must  make  up 
my  mind  to,  Dr.Ed;  I  shall  have  to  support  my 
mother." 

29 


Harriet  passed  the  door  on  her  way  in  to  a  be- 
lated supper.  The  man  in  the  parlor  had  a  momen- 
tary glimpse  of  her  slender,  sagging  shoulders,  her 
thin  face,  her  undisguised  middle  age. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  when  she  was  out  of  hearing. 
"It's  hard,  but  I  dare  say  it's  right  enough,  too. 
Your  aunt  ought  to  have  her  chance.  Only — I  wish 
it  did  n't  have  to  be." 

Sidney,  left  alone,  stood  in  the  little  parlor  beside 
the  roses.  She  touched  them  tenderly,  absently. 
Life,  which  the  day  before  had  called  her  with  the 
beckoning  finger  of  dreams,  now  reached  out  grim, 
insistent  hands.  Life — in  the  raw. 


CHAPTER  III 

K.  LE  MOYNE  had  wakened  early  that  first  morn- 
ing in  his  new  quarters.  When  he  sat  up  and 
yawned,  it  was  to  see  his  worn  cravat  disappearing 
with  vigorous  tugs  under  the  bureau.  He  rescued 
it,  gently  but  firmly. 

"You  and  I,  Reginald,"  he  apostrophized  the 
bureau,  "will  have  to  come  to  an  understanding. 
What  I  leave  on  the  floor  you  may  have,  but  what 
blows  down  is  not  to  be  touched." 

Because  he  was  young  and  very  strong,  he  wak- 
ened to  a  certain  lightness  of  spirit.  The  morning 
sun  had  always  called  him  to  a  new  day,  and  the 
sun  was  shining.  But  he  grew  depressed  as  he  pre- 
pared for  the  office.  He  told  himself  savagely,  as  he 
put  on  his  shabby  clothing,  that,  having  sought  for 
peace  and  now  found  it,  he  was  an  ass  for  resenting 
it.  The  trouble  was,  of  course,  that  he  came  of  a 
fighting  stock :  soldiers  and  explorers,  even  a  gen- 
tleman adventurer  or  two,  had  been  his  fore- 
fathers. He  loathed  peace  with  a  deadly  loathing. 

Having  given  up  everything  else,  K.  Le  Moyne 
had  also  given  up  the  love  of  woman.  That,  of 
course,  is  figurative.  He  had  been  too  busy  for  wo- 
men, and  now  he  was  too  idle.  A  small  part  of  his 
brain  added  figures  in  the  office  of  a  gas  company 
daily,  for  the  sum  of  two  dollars  and  fifty  cents  per 


eight-hour  working  day.  But  the  real  K.  Le  Moyne, 
that  had  dreamed  dreams,  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
figures,  but  sat  somewhere  in  his  head  and  mocked 
him  as  he  worked  at  his  task. 

"Time's  going  by,  and  here  you  are!"  mocked  the 
real  person  —  who  was,  of  course,  not  K.  Le  Moyne 
at  all.  "You're  the  hell  of  a  lot  of  use,  are  n't  you? 
Two  and  two  are  four  and  three  are  seven  —  take 
off  the  discount.  That 's  right.  It 's  a  man's  work, 
is  n't  it?" 

"Somebody's  got  to  do  this  sort  of  thing,"  pro- 
tested the  small  part  of  his  brain  that  earned  the 
two-fifty  per  working  day.  "And  it's  a  great  an- 
aesthetic. Hs  can't  think  when  he 's  doing  it.  There  '$ 
something  practical  about  figures,  and  —  rational.' 

He  dressed  quickly,  ascertaining  that  he  hac 
enough  money  to  buy  a  five-dollar  ticket  at  Mrs 
McKee's;  and,  having  given  up  the  love  of  womai 
with  other  things,  he  was  careful  not  to  look  abou 
for  Sidney  on  his  way. 

He  breakfasted  at  Mrs.  McKee's,  and  was  iniO 
ated  into  the  mystery  of  the  ticket  punch.  The  food 
was  rather  good,  certainly  plentiful;  and  even  l-\is 
squeamish  morning  appetite  could  find  no  fault  with 
the  self-respecting  tidiness  of  the  place.  Tillie  proved 
to  be  neat  and  austere.  He  fancied  it  would  not  be 
pleasant  to  be  very  late  for  one's  meals  —  in  fact, 
Sidney  had  hinted  as  much.  Some  of  the  "mealers" 
—  the  Street's  name  for  them  —  ventured  on  vari« 
.ous  small  familiarities  of  speech  with  Tillie.  K.  Le 

33 


Moyne  himself  was  scrupulously  polite,  but  reserved 
He  was  determined  not  to  let  the  Street  encroach  on 
his  wretchedness.  Because  he  had  come  to  live  there 
was  no  reason  why  it  should  adopt  him.  But  he  was 
very  polite.  When  the  deaf-and-dumb  book  agent 
wrote  something  on  a  pencil  pad  and  pushed  it 
toward  him,  he  replied  in  kind. 

'•We  are  very  glad  to  welcome  you  to  the  McKee 
family,''  was  what  was  written  on  the  pad. 

"  Very  happy,  indeed,  to  be  with  you,"  wrote  back 
Le  Moyne  —  and  realized  with  a  sort  of  shock  that 
he  meant  it. 

Thf?  kindly  greeting  had  touched  him.  The  greet- 
ing and  the  breakfast  cheered  him ;  also,  he  had  evi< 
dently  made  some  headway  with  Tillie. 

"Don't  you  want  a  toothpick?"  she  asked,  as  he 
went  out. 

In  K  's  previous  walk  of  life  there  had  been  no 
toothpicks;  or,  if  there  were  any,  they  were  kept, 
along  with  the  family  scandals,  in  a  closet.  But 
nearly  a  year  of  buffeting  about  had  taught  him 
many  things.  He  took  one,  and  placed  it  noncha- 
lantly in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  as  he  had  seen  the 
others  do. 

Tillie,  her  rush  hour  over,  wandered  back  into  che 
tdtchen  and  poured  herself  a  cup  of  coffee.  Mrs, 
McKee  was  reweighing  the  meat  order. 

"  Kind  of  a  nice  fellow,"  Tillie  said,  cup  to  lips  — L 
'the  new  man." 

"Week  or  meal?" 

33. 


K 


"Week.  He'd  be  handsome  if  he  was  n't  so 
grouchy-looking.  Lit  up  some  when  Mr.  Wagner 
sent  him  one  of  his  love  letters.  Rooms  over  at 
Pages'." 

Mrs.  McKee  drew  a  long  breath  and  entered  the 
lamb  stew  in  a  book. 

"When  I  think  of  Anna  Page  taking  a  roomer, 
it  just  about  knocks  me  over,  Tillie.  And  where 
they  '11  put  him,  in  that  little  house — he  looked  thin, 
what  I  saw  of  him.  Seven  pounds  and  a  quarter." 
This  last  referred,  not  to  K.  Le  Moyne,  of  course, 
but  to  the  lamb  stew. 

"Thin  as  a  fiddle-string." 

"Just  keep  an  eye  on  him,  that  he  gets  enough." 
Then,  rather  ashamed  of  her  unbusinesslike  meth- 
ods: "A  thin  mealer's  a  poor  advertisement.  Do 
you  suppose  this  is  the  dog  meat  or  the  soup 
scraps?" 

Tillie  was  a  niece  of  Mrs.  Rosenfeld.  In  such 
manner  was  most  of  the  Street  and  its  environs 
connected ;  in  such  wise  did  its  small  gossip  start  at 
one  end  and  pursue  its  course  down  one  side  and  up 
the  other. 

"Sidney  Page  is  engaged  to  Joe  Drummond," 
announced  Tillie.  "He  sent  her  a  lot  of  pink  roses 
yesterday." 

There  was  no  malice  in  her  flat  statement,  no 
envy.  Sidney  and  she,  living  in  the  world  of  the 
Street,  occupied  different  spheres.  But  the  very  lif e- 
lessness  in  her  voice  told  how  remotely  such  things 

34 


touched  her,  and  thus  was  tragic.  "Mealers"  came 
and  went — small  clerks,  petty  tradesmen,  husbands 
living  alone  in  darkened  houses  during  the  summer 
hegira  of  wives.  Various  and  catholic  was  Tillie's 
male  acquaintance,  but  compounded  of  good  fel- 
lowship only.  Once,  years  before,  romance  had 
paraded  itself  before  her  in  the  garb  of  a  traveling 
nurseryman — had  walked  by  and  not  come  back. 

"And  Miss  Harriet's  going  into  business  for 
herself.  She's  taken  rooms  downtown ;  she's  going 
to  be  Madame  Something  or  other." 

Now,  at  last,  was  Mrs.  McKee's  attention 
caught,  riveted. 

"For  the  love  of  mercy !  At  her  age !  It's  down- 
right selfish.  If  she  raises  her  prices  she  can't  make 
my  new  foulard." 

Tillie  sat  at  the  table,  her  faded  blue  eyes  fixed 
on  the  back  yard,  where  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Rosenf  eld, 
was  hanging  out  the  week's  wash  of  table  linen. 

"I  don't  know  as  it's  so  selfish,"  she  reflected. 
"We've  only  got  one  life.  I  guess  a  body's  got  the 
right  to  live  it." 

Mrs.  McKee  eyed  her  suspiciously,  but  Tillie's 
face  showed  no  emotion. 

"You  don't  ever  hear  of  Schwitter,  do  you?" 

"No;  I  guess  she's  still  living." 

Schwitter,  the  nurseryman,  had  proved  to  have  a 
wife  in  an  insane  asylum.  That  was  why  Tillie's 
romance  had  only  paraded  itself  before  her  and  had 
gone  by. 

"You  got  out  of  that  lucky." 
35 


Tillie  rose  and  tied  a  gingham  apron  over  her 
white  one. 

"I  guess  so.  Only  sometimes — " 

"Tillie!" 

"I  don't  know  as  it  would  have  been  so  wrong. 
He  ain't  young,  and  I  ain't.  And  we're  not  getting 
any  younger.  He  had  nice  manners ;  he'd  have  been 
good  to  me." 

Mrs.  McKee's  voice  failed  her.  For  a  moment 
she  gasped  like  a  fish.  Then : — 

"And  him  a  married  man !" 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  to  do  it,"  Tillie  soothed  her. 
"I  get  to  thinking  about  it  sometimes;  that's  all. 
This  new  fellow  made  me  think  of  him.  He's  got 
the  same  nice  way  about  him." 

Aye,  the  new  man  had  made  her  think  of  him, 
and  June,  and  the  lovers  who  lounged  along  the 
Street  in  the  moonlit  avenues  toward  the  park  and 
love ;  even  Sidney's  pink  roses.  Change  was  in  the 
very  air  of  the  Street  that  June  morning.  It  was  in 
Tillie,  making  a  last  clutch  at  youth,  and  finding,  in 
this  pale  flare  of  dying  passion,  courage  to  remem- 
ber what  she  had  schooled  herself  to  forget;  in 
Harriet,  asserting  her  right  to  live  her  life;  in 
Sidney,  planning  with  eager  eyes  a  life  of  service 
which  did  not  include  Joe;  in  K.  Le  Moyne,  who 
had  built  up  a  wall  between  himself  and  the  world, 
and  was  seeing  it  demolished  by  a  deaf-and-dumb 
book  agent  whose  weapon  was  a  pencil  pad ! 

36 


And  yet,  for  a  week  nothing  happened.  Joe  came 
in  the  evenings  and  sat  on  the  steps  with  Sidney,  his 
honest  heart  in  his  eyes.  She  could  not  bring  herself 
at  first  to  tell  him  about  the  hospital.  She  put  it  off 
from  day  to  day.  Anna,  no  longer  sulky,  accepted 
with  childlike  faith  Sidney's  statement  that  "  they  'd 
get  along;  she  had  a  splendid  scheme,"  and  took  to 
helping  Harriet  in  her  preparations  for  leaving. 
Tillie,  afraid  of  her  rebellious  spirit,  went  to  prayer 
meeting.  And  K.  Le  Moyne,  finding  his  little  room 
hot  in  the  evenings  and  not  wishing  to  intrude  on  the 
two  on  the  doorstep,  took  to  reading  his  paper  in 
the  park,  and  after  twilight  to  long,  rapid  walks  out 
into  the  country.  The  walks  satisfied  the  craving 
of  his  active  body  for  exercise,  and  tired  him  so  he 
could  ileep.  On  one  such  occasion  he  met  Mr.  Wag- 
ner, and  they  carried  on  an  animated  conversation 
until  it  was  too  dark  to  see  the  pad.  Even  then,  it 
developed  that  Mr.  Wagner  could  write  in  the  dark; 
and  he  secured  the  last  word  in  a  long  argument  by 
doing  this  and  striking  a  match  for  K.  to  read  ty. 

When  K.  was  sure  that  the  boy  had  gone,  he  would 
turn  back  toward  the  Street.  Some  of  the  heaviness 
of  his  spirit  always  left  him  at  sight  of  the  little  house. 
Its  kindly  atmosphere  seemed  to  reach  out  and  en- 
velop him.  Within  was  order  and  quiet,  the  fresh- 
ness of  his  turned-down  bed,  the  tidiness  of  his 
ordered  garments.  There  was  even  affection  —  Reg- 
inald, waiting  on  the  fender  for  his  supper,  and  re- 
garding him  with  wary  and  bright-eyed  friendliness, 

37 


Life,  that  had  seemed  so  simple,  had  grown  very 
complicated  for  Sidney.  There  was  her  mother  to 
break  the  news  to,  and  Joe.  Harriet  would  approve, 
she  felt ;  but  these  others !  To  assure  Anna  that  she, 
must  manage  alone  for  three  years,  in  order  to  be 
happy  and  comfortable  afterward  —  that  was  hard 
enough.  But  to  tell  Joe  that  she  was  planning  a  fu- 
ture without  him,  to  destroy  the  light  in  his  blue  eyes 
—  that  hurt. 

After  all,  Sidney  told  K.  first.  One  Friday  even- 
ing, coming  home  late  as  usual,  he  found  her  on  the 
doorstep,  and  Joe  gone.  She  moved  over  hospitably. 
The  moon  had  waxed  and  waned,  and  the  Street  was 
dark.  Even  the  ailanthus  blossoms  had  ceased  their 
snow-like  dropping.  The  colored  man  who  drove  Dr. 
Ed  in  the  old  buggy  on  his  daily  rounds  had  brought 
out  the  hose  and  sprinkled  the  street.  Within  this 
zone  of  freshness,  of  wet  asphalt  and  dripping  gut- 
ters, Sidney  sat,  cool  and  silent. 

"Please  sit  down.  It  is  cool  now.  My  idea  of 
luxury  is  to  have  the  Street  sprinkled  on  a  hot 
night." 

K.  disposed  of  his  long  legs  on  the  steps.  He  was 
trying  to  fit  his  own  ideas  of  luxury  to  a  garden  hose 
and  a  city  street. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  working  too  hard." 

"I?  I  do  a  minimum  of  labor  for  a  minimum  of 
wage." 

"  But  you  work  at  night,  don't  you?" 

38 


K 


K.  was  natively  honest.   He  hesitated.   Then:  — 

"No,  Miss  Page." 

"But  you  go  out  every  evening!"  Suddenly  the 
truth  burst  on  her. 

"  Oh,  dear ! "  she  said.  "  I  do  believe  —  why,  how 
silly  of  you!" 

K.  was  most  uncomfortable. 

"Really,  I  like  it,"  he  protested.  "I  hang  over  a 
desk  all  day,  and  in  the  evening  I  want  to  walk.  I 
ramble  around  the  park  and  see  lovers  on  benches  — 
xt's  rather  thrilling.  They  sit  on  the  same  benches 
evening  after  evening.  I  know  a  lot  of  them  by  sight, 
and  if  they  're  not  there  I  wonder  if  they  have  quar- 
reled, or  if  they  have  finally  got  married  and  ended 
the  romance.  You  can  see  how  exciting  it  is." 

Quite  suddenly  Sidney  laughed. 

"How  very  nice  you  are!"  she  said  —  "and  how 
absurd!  Why  should  their  getting  married  end  the 
romance?  And  don't  you  know  that,  if  you  insist  on 
walking  the  streets  and  parks  at  night  because  Joe 
Drummond  is  here,  I  shall  have  to  tell  him  not  to 
come?" 

This  did  not  follow,  to  K.'s  mind.  They  had 
rather  a  heated  argument  over  it,  and  became  much 
better  acquainted. 

"If  I  were  engaged  to  him,"  Sidney  ended,  her 
C'heeks  very  pink,  "I  —  I  might  understand.  But, 
as  I  am  not  — " 

"Ah!"  said  K.,  a  trifle  unsteadily.  "So  you  are 
not?" 

39 


Only  a  week  —  and  love  was  one  of  the  things  he 
had  had  to  give  up,  with  others.  Not,  of  course,  that 
he  was  in  love  with  Sidney  then.  But  he  had  been 
desperately  lonely,  and,  for  all  her  practical  clear- 
headedness, she  was  softly  and  appealingly  feminine, 
By  way  of  keeping  his  head,  he  talked  suddenly  and 
earnestly  of  Mrs.  McKee,  and  food,  and  Tillie,  and 
of  Mr.  Wagner  and  the  pencil  pad. 

"It's  like  a  game,"  he  said.  "We  disagree  on 
everything,  especially  Mexico.  If  you  ever  tried  to 
spell  those  Mexican  names  — " 

"  Why  did  you  think  I  was  engaged?"  she  insisted, 

Now,  in  K.'s  walk  of  life  —  that  walk  of  life  where 
there  are  no  toothpicks,  and  no  one  would  have  be- 
lieved that  twenty-one  meals  could  have  been  se- 
cured for  five  dollars  with  a  ticket  punch  thrown  in 
—  young  girls  did  not  receive  the  attention  of  one 
young  man  to  the  exclusion  of  others  unless  they 
were  engaged.  But  he  could  hardly  say  that. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Those  things  get  in  the  air 
I  am  quite  certain,  for  instance,  that  Reginald  sus- 
pects it." 

"It's" Johnny  Rosenfeld,"  said  Sidney,  with  de* 
i  Ision.  "It's  horrible,  the  way  things  get  about. 
Because  Joe  sent  me  a  box  of  roses  —  As  a  mattef 
of  fact,  I  'm  not  engaged,  or  going  to  be,  Mr.  Le 
Moyne.  I'm  going  into  a  hospital  to  be  a  nurse." 

Le  Moyne  said  nothing.  For  just  a  moment  he 
closed  his  eyes.  A  man  is  in  rather  a  bad  way  when 
every  time  'h?  closes  his  eyes,  he  sees  the  same  thing,; 


especially  if  it  is  rather  terrible.  When  it  gets  to  a 
point  where  he  lies  awake  at  night  and  reads,  for  feaf 
of  closing  them  — 

"You're  too  young,  are  n't  you?* 

"Dr.  Ed  —  one  of  the  Wilsons  across  the  Street 
'•—  is  going  to  help  me  about  that.  His  brother  Max 
.Is  a  big  surgeon  there.  I  expect  you  Ve  heard  of  him. 
We're  very  proud  of  him  in  the  Street." 

Lucky  for  K.  Le  Moyne  that  the  moon  no  longer 
shone  on  the  low  gray  doorstep,  that  Sidney's  mind 
had  traveled  far  away  to  shining  floors  and  rows  of 
white  beds.  "Life  —  in  the  raw,"  Dr.  Ed  had  said 
that  other  afternoon.  Closer  to  her  than  the  hospital 
was  life  in  the  raw  that  night. 

So,  even  here,  on  this  quiet  street  in  this  distant 
city,  there  was  to  be  no  peace.  Max  Wilson  just 
across  the  way!  It  —  it  was  ironic.  Was  there  no 
place  where  a  man  could  lose  himself?  He  would 
have  to  move  on  again,  of  course. 

But  that,  it  seemed,  was  just  what  he  could  not 
do.  For:  — 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  to  do  something,  and  I  hope 
you'll  be  quite  frank,"  said  Sidney. 

"Anything  that  I  can  do  — " 

"It's  this.  If  you  are  comfortable,  and  —  and 
like  the  room  and  all  that,  I  wish  you'd  stay."  She 
hurried  on:  "If  I  could  feel  that  mother  had  a  de- 
pendable person  like  you  in  the  house,  it  would  al? 
be  easier." 


K, 


Dependable!  That  stung. 

"But  —  forgive  my  asking;  I'm  really  interested 
c~-  can  your  mother  manage?  You  '11  get  practically 
no  money  during  your  training." 

"I've  thought  of  that.  A  friend  of  mine,  Chris 
tine  Lorenz,  is  going  to  be  married.  Her  people  are 
wealthy,  but  she'll  have  nothing  but  what  Palmer 
makes.  She  'd  like  to  have  the  parlor  and  the  sitting- 
room  behind.  They  would  n't  interfere  with  you  at 
all,"  she  added  hastily.  "Christine's  father  would 
build  a  little  balcony  at  the  side  for  them,  a  sort  of 
porch,  and  they'd  sit  there  in  the  evenings." 

Behind  Sidney's  carefully  practical  tone  the  man 
read  appeal.  Never  before  had  he  realized  how  nar- 
row the  girl's  world  had  been.  The  Street,  with  but 
one  dimension,  bounded  it!  In  her  perplexity  she 
was  appealing  to  him  who  was  practically  a  stranger. 

And  he  knew  then  that  he  must  do  the  thing  she 
asked.  He,  who  had  fled  so  long,  could  roam  no 
more.  Here  on  the  Street,  with  its  menace  just 
across,  he  must  live,  that  she  might  work.  In  his 
,  world,  men  had  worked  that  women  might  live  in 
certain  places,  certain  ways.  This  girl  was  going 
out  to  earn  her  living,  and  he  would  stay  to  make  it 
possible.  But  no  hint  of  all  this  was  in  his  voice. 

"I  shall  stay,  of  course,"  he  said  gravely.   "I  - 
this  is  the  nearest  thing  to  home  that  I  Ve  known 
a  long  time.   I  want  you  to  know  that." 

So  they  moved  their  puppets  about,  Anna  anr> 


Harriet,  Christine  and  her  husband-to-be,  Dr.  Ed, 
even  Tillie  and  the  Rosenfelds;  shifted  and  placed 
them,  and,  planning,  obeyed  inevitable  law. 

"Christine  shall  come,  then,"  said  Sidney  for- 
sooth, "and  we  will  throw  out  a  balcony." 

So  they  planned,  calmly  ignorant  that  poor  Chris- 
tine's story  and  Tillie's  and  Johnny  Rosenfeld's  and 
all  the  others'  were  already  written  among  the  things 
that  are,  and  the  things  that  shall  be  hereafter. 

"You  are  very  good  to  me,"  said  Sidney. 

When  she  rose,  K.  Le  Moyne  sprang  to  his  feet. 

Anna  had  noticed  that  he  always  rose  when  she 
entered  his  room,  —  with  fresh  towels  on  Katie's 
day  out,  for  instance,  —  and  she  liked  him  for  it. 
Years  ago,  the  men  she  had  known  had  shown  this 
courtesy  to  their  women;  but  the  Street  regarded 
such  things  as  affectation. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  would  do  me  another  favor?  I  'm 
afraid  you'll  take  to  avoiding  me,  if  I  keep  on." 

"I  don't  think  you  need  fear  that." 

"This  stupid  story  about  Joe  Drummond  —  I'm 
not  saying  I  '11  never  marry  him,  but  I  'm  certainly 
not  engaged.  Now  and  then,  when  you  are  taking 
your  evening  walks,  if  you  would  ask  me  to  walk 
with  you  — " 

K.  looked  rather  dazed. 

"I  can't  imagine  anything  pleasanter;  but  I  wish 
you  'd  explain  just  how  — " 

Sidney  smiled  at  him.  As  he  stood  on  the  lowest 
step,  their  eyes  were  almost  level. 

4-3 


"  If  I  walk  with  you,  they  '11  know  I  'm  not  engaged 
to  Joe,"  she  said,  with  engaging  directness. 

The  house  was  quiet.  He  waited  in  the  lower  hall 
until  she  had  reached  the  top  of  the  staircase.  For 
some  curious  reason,  in  the  time  to  come,  that  was 
the  way  Sidney  always  remembered  K.  Le  Moyne  — 
standing  in  the  little  hall,  one  hand  upstretched  to 
shut  off  the  gas  overhead,  and  his  eyes  on  hers  above. 

"Good-night,"  said  K.  Le  Moyne.  And  all  the 
things  he  had  put  out  of  his  life  were  in  his  voice. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ON  the  morning  after  Sidney  had  invited  K.  Le 
Moyne  to  take  her  to  walk,  Max  Wilson  came  down 
to  breakfast  rather  late.  Dr.  Ed  had  breakfasted  an 
hour  before,  and  had  already  attended,  with  much 
profanity  on  the  part  of  the  patient,  to  a  boil  on  the 
back  of  Mr.  Rosenfeld's  neck. 

"  Better  change  your  laundry,"  cheerfully  advised 
Dr.  Ed,  cutting  a  strip  of  adhesive  plaster.  "Your 
neck's  irritated  from  your  white  collars." 

Rosenfeld  eyed  him  suspiciously,  but,  possessing 
a  sense  of  humor  also,  he  grinned. 

"It  ain't  my  everyday  things  that  bother  me,"  he 
replied.  "It's  my  blankety-blank  dress  suit.  But  if 
a  man  wants  to  be  tony  — " 

"Tony"  was  not  of  the  Street,  but  of  its  environs. 
Harriet  was  "tony"  because  she  walked  with  her 
elbows  in  and  her  head  up.  Dr.  Max  was  "tony" 
because  he  breakfasted  late,  and  had  a  man  come 
once  a  week  and  take  away  his  clothes  to  be  pressed. 
He  was  "tony,"  too,  because  he  had  brought  back 
from  Europe  narrow-shouldered  English-cut  clothes, 
when  the  Street  was  still  padding  its  shoulders.  Even 
K..  would  have  been  classed  with  these  others,  for 
the  stick  that  he  carried  on  his  walks,  for  the  fact 
that  his  shabby  gray  coat  was  as  unmistakably 

45 


foreign  in  cut  as  Dr.  Max's,  had  the  neighborhood  so 
much  as  known  him  by  sight.  But  K.,  so  far,  had 
remained  in  humble  obscurity,  and,  outside  of  Mrs. 
McKee's,  was  known  only  as  the  Pages'  roomer. 

Mr.  Rosenfeld  buttoned  up  the  blue  flannel  shirt 
which,  with  a  pair  of  Dr.  Ed's  cast-off  trousers,  was 
his  only  wear,  and  fished  in  his  pocket. 

"How  much,  Doc?" 

"Two  dollars,"  said  Dr.  Ed  briskly. 

"Holy  cats!  For  one  jab  of  a  knife!  My  old 
woman  works  a  day  and  a  half  for  two  dollars." 

"I  guess  it's  worth  tw6  dollars  to  you  to  be  able 
to  sleep  on  your  back."  He  was  imperturbably 
straightening  his  small  glass  table.  He  knew  Rosen- 
feld. "If  you  don't  like  my  price,  I'll  lend  you  the 
knife  the  next  time,  and  you  can  let  your  wife  attend 
to  you." 

Rosenfeld  drew  out  a  silver  dollar,  and  followed 
it  reluctantly  with  a  limp  and  dejected  dollar  bill. 

"There  are  times,"  he  said,  "when,  if  you'd  put 
me  and  the  missus  and  a  knife  in  the  same  room,  you 
would  n't  have  much  left  but  the  knife." 

Dr.  Ed  waited  until  he  had  made  his  stiff-necked 
exit.  Then  he  took  the  two  dollars,  and,  putting  the 
money  into  an  envelope,  indorsed  it  in  his  illegible 
hand.  He  heard  his  brother's  step  on  the  stairs,  and 
Dr.  Ed  made  haste  to  put  away  the  last  vestiges  of 
his  little  operation. 

Ed's  lapses  from  surgical  cleanliness  were  a  sore 
trial  to  the  younger  man,  fresh  from  the  clinics  of 

46 


K 


Europe.  In  his  downtown  office,  to  which  he  would 
presently  make  his  leisurely  progress,  he  wore  a 
white  coat,  and  sterilized  things  of  which  Dr.  Ed  did 
not  even  know  the  names. 

So,  as  he  came  down  the  stairs,  Dr.  Ed,  who  had 
wiped  his  tiny  knife  with  a  bit  of  cotton,  —  he  hated 
sterilizing  it ;  it  spoiled  the  edge,  —  thrust  it  hastily 
into  his  pocket.  He  had  cut  boils  without  boiling 
anything  for  a  good  many  years,  and  no  trouble. 
But  he  was  wise  with  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent  and 
the  general  practitioner,  and  there  was  no  use  rais- 
ing a  discussion. 

Max's  morning  mood  was  always  a  cheerful  one, 
Now  and  then  the  way  of  the  transgressor  is  dis- 
gustingly pleasant.  Max,  who  sat  up  until  all  hours 
of  the  night,  drinking  beer  or  whiskey-and-soda,  and 
playing  bridge,  wakened  to  a  clean  tongue  and  a 
tendency  to  have  a  cigarette  between  shoes,  so  to 
speak.  Ed,  whose  wildest  dissipation  had  perhaps 
been  to  bring  into  the  world  one  of  the  neighbor- 
hood's babies,  wakened  customarily  to  the  dark 
hour  of  his  aay,  when  he  dubbed  himself  failure 
and  loathed  the  Street  with  a  deadly  loathing. 

So  now  Max  brought  his  handsome  self  down  the 
staircase  and  paused  at  the  office  door. 

"At  it  already,"  he  said.  "Or  have  you  been  te 
bed?" 

"It's  after  nine,"  protested  Ed  mildly.  "If  I 
don't  start  early,  I  never  get  through." 

Max  yawned. 

47 


"  Better  come  with  me,"  he  said.  "  If  things  go  on 
as  they  Ve  been  doing,  I  '11  have  to  have  an  assistant. 
I'd  rather  have  you  than  anybody,  of  course."  He 
put  his  lithe  surgeon's  hand  on  his  brother's  shoulder. 
"Where  would  I  be  if  it  had  n't  been  for  you?  AH 
the  fellows  know  what  you've  done." 

In  spite  of  himself,  Ed  winced.  It  was  one  thing 
to  work  hard  that  there  might  be  one  success  instead 
of  two  half  successes.  It  was  a  different  thing  to  ad- 
vertise one's  mediocrity  to  the  world.  His  sphere  of 
the  Street  and  the  neighborhood  was  his  own.  To 
give  it  all  up  and  become  his  younger  brother's  as- 
sistant —  even  if  it  meant,  as  it  would,  better  hours 
and  more  money  —  would  be  to  submerge  his  iden- 
tity. He  could  not  bring  himself  to  it. 

"I  guess  I'll  stay  where  I  am,"  he  said.  "They 
know  me  around  here,  and  I  know  them.  By  the  way* 
will  you  leave  this  envelope  at  Mrs.  McKee's?  Mag- 
gie Rosenfeld  is  ironing  there  to-day.  It's  for  her.'5 

Max  took  the  envelope  absently. 

"  You  '11  go  on  here  to  the  end  of  your  days,  work- 
ing for  a  pittance,"  he  objected.  '  Inside  of  ten 
years  there '11  be  no  general  practitioners;  then  where 
will  you  be?" 

"  I  '11  manage  somehow,"  said  his  brother  placidly. 
''  I  guess  there  will  always  be  a  few  that  can  pay  my 
prices  better  than  what  you  specialists  ask," 

Max  laughed  with  genuine  amusement. 

"I  dare  say,  if  this  is  the  way  you  let  them  pay 
your  prices." 

.48 


He  held  out  the  envelope,  and  the  older  mat 
-.oiored. 

Very  proud  of  Dr.  Max  was  his  brother,  unselfishly 
proud,  of  his  skill,  of  his  handsome  person,  of  his 
easy  good  manners;  very  humble,  too,  of  his  own 
knowledge  and  experience.  If  he  ever  suspected  any 
lack  of  finer  fiber  in  Max,  he  put  the  thought  away. 
Probably  he  was  too  rigid  himself.  Max  was  young, 
a  hard  worker.  He  had  a  right  to  play  hard. 

He  prepared  his  black  bag  for  the  day's  calls  - 
stethoscope,  thermometer,  eye-cup,  bandages,  case 
of  small  vials,  a  lump  of  absorbent  cotton  in  a  not 
over-fresh  towel;  in  the  bottom,  a  heterogeneous  col- 
lection of  instruments,  a  roll  of  adhesive  plaster,  a 
bottle  or  two  of  sugar-of-milk  tablets  for  the  chil- 
dren, a  dog  collar  that  had  belonged  to  a  dead  collie, 
and  had  got  in  the  bag  in  some  curious  fashion  and 
there  remained. 

He  prepared  the  bag  a  little  nervously,  while  Max 
ate.  He  felt  that  modern  methods  and  the  best 
usage  might  not  have  approved  of  the  bag.  On  his 
way  out  he  paused  at  the  dining-room  door. 

"Are  you  going  to  the  hospital?" 

"Operating  at  four  —  wish  you  could  come  in.** 

"I'm  afraid  not,  Max.  I've  promised  Sidney 
Page  to  speak  about  her  to  you.  She  wants  to  enter 
the  training-school." 

"Too  young,"  said  Max  briefly.  "Why,  she  can't 
be  over  sixteen." 

.49 


K. 


"She's  eighteen." 

"Well,  even  eighteen.  Do  you  think  any  girl  oi 
that  age  is  responsible  enough  to  have  life  and  death 
put  in  her  hands?  Besides,  although  I  have  n't 
noticed  her  lately,  she  used  to  be  a  pretty  little 
thing.  There  is  no  use  filling  up  the  wards  with  a  lot 
of  ornaments;  it  keeps  the  internes  all  stewed  up." 

"Since  when,"  asked  Dr.  Ed  mildly,  "have  you 
found  good  looks  in  a  girl  a  handicap?" 

In  the  end  they  compromised.  Max  would  see 
Sidney  at  his  office.  It  would  be  better  than  having 
her  run  across  the  Street  —  would  put  things  on  the 
right  footing.  For,  if  he  did  have  her  admitted,  she 
would  have  to  learn  at  once  that  he  was  no  longer 
"Dr.  Max";  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  now 
staff,  and  entitled  to  much  dignity,  to  speech  with- 
out contradiction  'or  argument,  to  clean  towels,  and 
a  deferential  interne  at  his  elbow. 

Having  given  his  promise,  Max  promptly  forgot 
about  it.  The  Street  did  not  interest  him.  Christine 
and  Sidney  had  been  children  when  he  went  to 
Vienna,  and  since  his  return  he  had  hardly  noticed 
them.  Society,  always  kind  to  single  men  of  good 
appearance  and  easy  good  manners,  had  taken  him 
up.  He  wore  dinner  or  evening  clothes  five  nights 
out  of  seven,  and  was  supposed  by  his  conservative 
old  neighbors  to  be  going  the  pace.  The  rumor  had 
been  fed  by  Mrs.  Rosenfeld,  who,  starting  out  for 
her  day's  washing  at  six  o'clock  one  morning,  had 

50 


found  Dr.  Max's  car,  lamps  lighted  and  engine  go- 
ing, drawn  up  before  the  house  door,  with  its  owner 
asleep  at  the  wheel.  The  story  traveled  the  length 
of  the  Street  that  day. 

"Him,"  said  Mrs.  Rosenfeld,  who  was  occasion- 
ally flowery,  "sittin'  up  as  straight  as  this  wash- 
board, and  his  silk  hat  shinin'  in  the  sun;  but,  ex- 
ceptin'  the  car,  which  was  workin'  hard  and  gettin' 
nowhere,  the  whole  outfit  in  the  arms  of  Morpheus." 

Mrs.  Lorenz,  whose  day  it  was  to  have  Mrs.  Ro- 
senfeld, and  who  was  unfamiliar  with  mythology, 
gasped  at  the  last  word. 

"Mercy!"  she  said.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  he's 
got  that  awful  drug  habit!" 

Down  the  clean  steps  went  Dr.  Max  that  morning, 
a  big  man,  almost  as  tall  as  K.  Le  Moyne,  eager  of 
life,  strong  and  a  bit  reckless,  not  fine,  perhaps,  but 
not  evil.  He  had  the  same  zest  of  living  as  Sidney, 
but  with  this  difference  —  the  girl  stood  ready  to 
give  herself  to  life:  he  knew  that  life  would  come  to 
him.  All-dominating  male  was  Dr.  Max,  that  morn- 
ing, as  he  drew  on  his  gloves  before  stepping  into 
his  car.  It  was  after  nine  o'clock.  K.  Le  Moyne  had 
been  an  hour  at  his  desk.  The  McKee  napkins  lay 
ironed  in  orderly  piles. 

Nevertheless,  Dr.  Max  was  suffering  under  a 
sense  of  defeat  as  he  rode  downtown.  The  night  be- 
fore, he  had  proposed  to  a  girl  and  had  been  rejected. 
He  was  not  in  love  with  the  girl,  —  she  would  have 

5* 


K. 


been  a  suitable  wife,  and  a  surgeon  ought  to  be 
married ;  it  gives  people  confidence,  —  but  his  pride 
was  hurt.  He  recalled  the  exact  words  of  the  rejec- 
tion. 

"You're  too  good-looking,  Max,"  she  had  said, 
J'and  that's  the  truth.  Now  that  operations  are  as 
popular  as  fancy  dancing,  and  much  less  bother, 
half  the  women  I  know  are  crazy  about  their  sur- 
geons. I  'm  too  fond  of  my  peace  of  mind." 

"  But,  good  Heavens!  have  n't  you  any  confidence 
in  me?"  he  nad  demanded. 

"None  whatever,  Max  dear."  She  had  looked  at 
him  with  level,  understanding  eyes. 

He  put  the  disagreeable  recollection  out  of  his 
mind  as  he  parked  his  car  and  made  his  way  to  his 
office.  Here  would  be  people  who  believed  in  him, 
from  the  middle-aged  nurse  in  her  prim  uniform  to 
the  row  of  patients  sitting  stiffly  around  the  walls  of 
the  waiting-room.  Dr.  Max,  pausing  in  the  hall 
outside  the  door  of  his  private  office,  drew  a  long 
breath.  This  was  the  real  thing  —  work  and  plenty 
of  it,  a  chance  to  show  the  other  men  what  he  could 
do,  a  battle  to  win !  No  humanitarian  was  he,  but  a 
fighter:  each  day  he  came  to  his  office  with  the  same 
ba*-ti*»  lust. 

The  office  nurse  had  her  back  to  him.  When  she 
turned,  he  faced  an  agreeable  surprise.  Instead  of 
Miss  Simpson,  he  faced  a  young  and  attractive  girl 
faintly  familiar. 

52- 


41  We  tried  to  get  you  by  telephone,"  she  explained: 
"T  am  from  the  hospital.  Miss  Simpson's  father 
died  this  morning,  and  she  knew  you  would  have  to 
have  some  one.  I  was  just  starting  for  my  vacation, 
so  they  sent  me." 

"Rather  a  poor  substitute  for  a  vacation,"  he 
commented. 

She  was  a  very  pretty  girl.  He  had  seen  her  before 
in  the  hospital,  but  he  had  never  really  noticed  how 
attractive  she  was.  Rather  stunning  she  was,  he 
thought.  The  combination  of  yellow  hair  and  dark 
eyes  was  unusual.  He  remembered,  just  in  time,  to 
express  regret  at  Miss  Simpson's  bereavement. 

"I  am  Miss  Harrison,"  explained  the  substitute, 
and  held  out  his  long  white  coat.  The  ceremony, 
purely  perfunctory  with  Miss  Simpson  on  duty, 
proved  interesting,  Miss  Harrison,  in  spite  of  her 
high  heels,  being  small  and  the  young  surgeon  tall. 
When  he  was  finally  in  the  coat,  she  was  rather 
flushed  and  palpitating. 

"But  I  knew  your  name,  of  course,"  lied  Dr.  Max. 
"And  —  I  'm  sorry  about  the  vacation." 

After  that  came  work.  Miss  Harrison  was  nimble 
and  alert,  but  the  surgeon  worked  quickly  and  with 
few  words,  was  impatient  when  she  could  not  find 
the  things  he  called  for,  even  broke  into  restrained 
profanity  now  and  then.  She  went  a  little  pale  over 
her  mistakes,  but  preserved  her  dignity  and  her  wits. 
Now  and  then  he  found  her  dark  eyes  fixed  on  him, 
with  something  inscrutable  but  pleasing  in  their 

53 


K 


depths.  The  situation  was  rather  piquant.  Con- 
sciously he  was  thinking  only  of  what  he  was  doing. 
Subconsciously  his  busy  ego  was  finding  solace  after 
fast  night's  rebuff. 

Once,  during  the  cleaning  up  between  cases,  he 
dropped  to  a  personality.  He  was  drying  his  hands, 
while  she  placed  freshly  sterilized  instruments  on  a 
glass  table. 

."You  are  almost  a  foreign  type,  Miss  Harrison. 
Last  year,  in  a  London  ballet,  I  saw  a  blonde  Spanish 
girl  who  looked  like  you." 

"My  mother  was  a  Spaniard."  She  did  not  look 
up. 

Where  Miss  Simpson  was  in  the  habit  of  clump- 
ing through  the  morning  in  flat,  heavy  shoes,  Miss 
Harrison's  small  heels  beat  a  busy  tattoo  on  the 
tiled  floor.  With  the  rustling  of  her  starched  dress, 
the  sound  was  essentially  feminine,  almost  insistent. 
When  he  had  time  to  notice  it,  it  amused  him  that  he 
did  not  find  it  annoying. 

Once,  as  she  passed  him  a  bistoury,  he  deliberately 
placed  his  fine  hand  over  her  fingers  and  smiled  into 
her  eyes.  It  was  play  for  him ;  it  lightened  the  day's 
work. 

Sidney  was  in  the  waiting-room.  There  had  been 
no  tedium  in  the  morning's  waiting.  Like  all  im- 
aginative people,  she  had  the  gift  of  dramatizing 
herself.  She  was  seeing  herself  in  white  from  head  to 
foot,  like  this  efficient  young  woman  who  came  no\v 
and  then  to  the  waiting-room  door;  she  was  healing 

54 


Uie  sick  and  closing  tired  eyes ;  she  was  even  imagin- 
ing herself  proposed  to  by  an  aged  widower  with 
grown  children  and  quantities  of  money,  one  of  her 
patients. 

She  sat  very  demurely  in  the  waiting-room  with  a 
magazine  in  her  lap,  and  told  her  aged  patient  that 
she  admired  and  respected  him,  but  that  she  had 
given  herself  to  the  suffering  poor. 

"  Everything  in  the  world  that  you  want,"  begged 
the  elderly  gentleman.  "You  should  see  the  world, 
child,  and  I  will  see  it  again  through  your  eyes.  To 
Paris  first  for  clothes  and  the  opera,  and  then  — " 

"But  I  do  not  love  you,"  Sidney  replied,  mentally 
but  steadily.  "  In  all  the  world  I  love  only  one  man. 
He  is—  " 

She  hesitated  here.  It  certainly  was  not  Joe,  or 
K.  Le  Moyne  of  the  gas  office.  It  seemed  to  her  sud- 
denly very  sad  that  there  was  no  one  she  loved.  So 
many  people  went  into  hospitals  because  they  had 
been  disappointed  in  love. 

"Dr.  Wilson  will  see  you  now." 

She  followed  Miss  Harrison  into  the  consulting- 
room.  Dr.  Max  —  not  the  gloved  and  hatted  Dr. 
Max  of  the  Street,  but  a  new  person,  one  she  had 
never  known  —  stood  in  his  white  office,  tall,  dark- 
eyed,  dark-haired,  competent,  holding  out  his  long, 
immaculate  surgeon's  hand  and  smiling  down  at  her. 

Men,  like  jewels,  require  a  setting.  A  clerk  on  a 
foigh  stool,  poring  over  a  ledger,  is  not  unimpressive. 

55 


or  a  cook  over  her  stove.  But  place  the  cook  on  the 
stool,  poring  over  the  ledger!  Dr.  Max,  who  had 
lived  all  his  life  on  the  edge  of  Sidney's  horizon,  now, 
by  the  simple  changing  of  her  point  of  view,  loomed 
!arge  and  magnificent.  Perhaps  he  knew  it.  Cer- 
tainly he  stood  very  erect.  Certainly,  too,  there  was 
considerable  manner  in  the  way  in  which  he  asked 
Miss  Harrison  to  go  out  and  close  the  door  behind 
her. 

Sidney's  heart,  considering  what  was  happening 
to  it,  behaved  very  well. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  Sidney,"  said  Dr.  Max, 
"here  you  are  a  young  lady  and  I've  never  noticed 
it!" 

This,  of  course,  was  not  what  he  had  intended  to 
say,  being  staff  and  all  that.  But  Sidney,  visibly 
palpitant,  was  very  pretty,  much  prettier  than  the 
Harrison  girl,  beating  a  tattoo  with  her  heels  in  the 
next  room. 

Dr.  Max,  belonging  to  the  class  of  man  who  settles 
his  tie  every  time  he  sees  an  attractive  woman, 
thrust  his  hands  into  the  pockets  of  his  long  white 
coat  and  surveyed  her  quizzically. 

"Did  Dr.  Ed  tell  you?" 

"Sit  down.  He  said  something  about  the  hospital. 
How's  your  mother  and  Aunt  Harriet?" 

"Very  well  —  that  is,  mother's  never  quite  well." 
She  was  sitting  forward  on  her  chair,  her  wide  young 
eyes  on  him.  "  Is  that  —  is  your  nurse  from  the  hos- 
pital here?" 

56 


K 


"Yes.  But  she's  not  my  nurse.  She's  a  substik 
tute." 

"The  uniform  is  so  pretty."  Poor  Sidney!  with 
all  the  things  she  had  meant  to  say  about  a  life  of 
service,  and  that,  although  she  was  young,  she  was 
terribly  in  earnest. 

"It  takes  a  lot  of  plugging  before  one  gets  the 
uniform.  Look  here,  Sidney;  if  you  are  going  to  the 
hospital  because  of  the  uniform,  and  with  any  idea 
of  soothing  fevered  brows  and  all  that  nonsense  — 

She  interrupted  him,  deeply  flushed.  Indeed,  no. 
She  wanted  to  work.  She  was  young  and  strong,  and 
surely  a  pair  of  willing  hands  —  that  was  absurd 
about  the  uniform.  She  had  no  silly  ideas.  There 
was  so  much  to  do  in  the  world,  and  she  wanted  to 
help.  Some  people  could  give  money,  but  she  could 
n't.  She  could  only  offer  service.  And.  partly  through 
earnestness  and  partly  through  excitement,  she 
ended  in  a  sort  of  nervous  sob,  and,  going  to  the 
window,  stood  with  her  back  to  him. 

He  followed  her,  and,  because  they  were  old 
neighbors,  she  did  not  resent  it  when  he  put  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder. 

"I  don't  know  —  of  course,  if  you  feel  like  that 
about  it,"  he  said,  "we'll  see  what  can  be  done.  It's 
hard  work,  and  a  good  many  times  it  seems  futile. 
They  die,  you  know,  in  spite  of  all  we  can  do.  And 
there  are  many  things  that  are  worse  than  death  —  " 

His  voice  trailed  off.  When  he  had  started  out  in 
his  profession,  he  had  had  some  such  ideal  of  service 

57 


as  this  girl  beside  him.  For  just  a  moment,  as  he 
stood  there  close  to  her,  he  saw  things  again  with 
the  eyes  of  his  young  faith:  to  relieve  pain,  to 
straighten  the  crooked,  to  hurt  that  he  might  heal, — 
not  to  show  the  other  men  what  he  could  do,  —  that 
had  been  his  early  creed.  He  sighed  a  little  as  he 
turned  away. 

"I'll  speak  to  the  superintendent  about  you,"  he 
said.  "  Perhaps  you'd  like  me  to  show  you  around  a 
little." 

"When?  To-day?" 

He  had  meant  in  a  month,  or  a  year.  It  was  quite 
a  minute  before  he  replied :  — 

"Yes,  to-day,  if  you  say.  I'm  operating  at  four. 
How  about  three  o'clock?" 

She  held  out  both  hands,  and  he  took  them,  smil- 
ing. 

"You  are  the  kindest  person  I  ever  met." 

"And  —  perhaps  you'd  better  not  say  you  are 
applying  until  we  find  out  if  there  is  a  vacancy/' 

"May  I  tell  one  person?" 

"Mother?" 

"No.  We  —  we  have  a  roomer  now.  He  is  very 
much  interested.  I  should  like  to  tell  him." 

He  dropped  her  hands  and  looked  at  her  in  mock 
severity. 

"Much  interested!   Is  he  in  love  with  you?" 

"Mercy,  no!" 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  I  'm  jealous.  You  know,  I  '-•'« 
always  been  more  than  half  in  love  with  you  myself!" 

58 


Play  for  him  —  the  same  victorious  instinct  that 
had  made  him  touch  Miss  Harrison's  fingers  as  she 
gave  him  the  instrument.  And  Sidney  knew  how  it 
was  meant ;  she  smiled  into  his  eyes  and  drew  down 
her  veil  briskly. 

"Then  we'll  say  at  three,"  she  said  calmly,  and 
took  an  orderly  and  unflurried  departure. 

But  the  little  seed  of  tenderness  had  taken  root. 
Sidney,  passing  in  the  last  week  or  two  from  girlhood 
to  womanhood,  —  outgrowing  Joe,  had  she  only 
known  it,  as  she  had  outgrown  the  Street,  —  had 
come  that  day  into  her  first  contact  with  a  man  of 
the  world.  True,  there  was  K.  Le  Moyne.  But  K. 
was  now  of  the  Street,  of  that  small  world  of  one 
dimension  that  she  was  leaving  behind  her. 

She  sent  him  a  note  at  noon,  with  word  to  Tillie  at 
Mrs.  McKee's  to  put  it  under  his  plate:  — 

DEAR  MR.  LE  MOYNE,  —  I  am  so  excited  I  can 
hardly  write.  Dr.  Wilson,  the  surgeon,  is  going  to 
take  me  through  the  hospital  this  afternoon.  Wish 
me  luck. 

SIDNEY  PAGE. 

K.  read  it,  and,  perhaps  because  the  day  was  hot 
and  his  butter  soft  and  the  other  "  mealers  "  irritable 
with  the  heat,  he  ate  little  or  no  luncheon.  Before 
he  went  out  into  the  sun,  he  read  the  note  again. 
To  his  jealous  eyes  came  a  vision  of  that  excursion 
to  the  hospital.  Sidney,  all  vibrant  eagerness,  lumi« 

59 


nous  of  eye,  quick  of  bosom ;  and  Wilson,  sardoni- 
cally smiling,  amused  and  interested  in  spite  of 
himself.  He  drew  a  long  breath,  and  thrust  the 
note  in  his  pocket. 

The  little  house  across  the  way  sat  square  in  the 
sun.  The  shades  of  his  windows  had  been  lowered 
against  the  heat.  K.  Le  Moyne  made  an  impulsive 
movement  toward  it,  and  checked  himself. 

As  he  went  down  the  Street,  Wilson's  car  came 
around  the  corner.  Le  Moyne  moved  quietly  into 
the  shadow  of  the  church  and  watched  the  car  go 
by 


CHAPTER  V 

SIDNEY  and  K.  Le  Moyne  sat  under  a  tree  and 
talked.  In  Sidney's  lap  lay  a  small  pasteboard  boXf 
punched  with  many  holes.  It  was  the  day  of  releas- 
ing Reginald,  but  she  had  not  yet  been  able  to  bring 
herself  to  the  point  of  separation.  Now  and  then  a 
furry  nose  protruded  from  one  of  the  apertures  and 
sniffed  the  welcome  scent  of  pine  and  buttonball,  red 
<md  white  clover,  the  thousand  spicy  odors  of  field 
and  woodland. 

"And  so,"  said  K.  Le  Moyne,  "you  liked  it  all? 
It  didn't  startle  you?" 

"Well,  in  one  way,  of  course  —  you  see,  I  did  n't 
know  it  was  quite  like  that :  all  order  and  peace  and 
quiet,  and  white  beds  and  whispers,  on  top,  —  you 
know  what  I  mean,  —  and  the  misery  there  just  the 
same.  Have  you  ever  gone  through  a  hospital?" 

K.  Le  Moyne  was  stretched  out  on  the  grass,  his 
arms  under  his  head.  For  this  excursion  to  the  end 
of  the  street-car  line  he  had  donned  a  pair  of  white 
flannel  trousers  and  a  belted  Norfolk  coat.  Sidney 
had  been  divided  between  pride  in  his  appearance  and 
fear  that  the  Street  would  deem  him  overdressed. 

At  her  question  he  closed  his  eyes,  shutting  out 
the  peaceful  arch  and  the  bit  of  blue  heaven  over* 
head.  He  did  not  reply  at  once. 

61 


"Good  gracious,  I  believe  he's  asleep!"  said  Sid« 
ney  to  the  pasteboard  box. 

But  he  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled  at  her. 

"I've  been  around  hospitals  a  little.  I  suppose 
now  there  is  no  question  about  your  going?" 

"The  superintendent  said  I  was  young,  but  that 
any  protegee  of  Dr.  Wilson's  would  certainly  be 
given  a  chance." 

"It  is  hard  work,  night  and  day." 

"Do  you  think  I  am  afraid  of  work?" 

"And  — Joe?" 

Sidney  colored  vigorously  and  sat  erect. 

"He  is  very  silly.  He's  taken  all  sorts  of  idiotic 
notions  in  his  head." 

"Such  as— " 

"Well,  he  hates  the  hospital,  of  course.  As  if,  even 
if  I  meant  to  marry  him,  it  would  n't  be  years  before 
he  can  be  ready." 

"Do  you  think  you  are  quite  fair  to  Joe?" 

"  I  have  n't  promised  to  marry  him." 

"But  he  thinks  you  mean  to.  If  you  have  quite 
made  up  your  mind  not  to,  better  tell  him,  don't  you 
ihink?  What  —  what  are  these  idiotic  notions?" 

Sidney  considered,  poking  a  slim  finger  into  the 
little  holes  in  the  box. 

''  You  can  see  how  stupid  he  is,  and  —  and  young, 
For  one  thing,  he's  jealous  of  you!" 

"  I  see.  Of  course  that  is  silly,  although  your  af  - 
titude  toward  his  suspicion  is  hardly  flattering  tc 
me;" 

62 


He  smiled  up  at  her. 

31 1  told  him  that  I  had  asked  you  to  bring  me  here 
to-day .  He  was  furious.  And  that  was  n't  all." 

"No?" 

"He  said  I  was  flirting  desperately  with  Dr.  Wil- 
son. You  see,  the  day  we  went  through  the  hospital, 
it  was  hot,  and  we  went  to  Henderson's  for  soda- 
water.  And,  of  course,  Jo€-  was  there.  It  was  really 
dramatic." 

K.  Le  Moyne  was  daily  gaining  the  ability  to  see 
things  from  the  angle  of  the  Street.  A  month  ago  he 
could  have  seen  no  situation  in  two  people,  a  man 
and  a  girl,  drinking  soda-water  together,  even  with  a 
boy  lover  on  the  next  stool,  ^ow  he  could  view 
things  through  Joe's  tragic  eyes.  And  there  was 
more  than  that.  All  day  he  had  noticed  how  inevit- 
ably the  conversation  turned  to  the  young  surgeon. 
Did  they  start  with  Reginald,  with  the  condition  of 
the  morning- glory  vines,  with  the  proposition  of 
taking  up  the  quaint  paving-stones  and  macadamiz 
ing  the  Street,  they  ended  with  the  younger  Wilson. 

Sidne3''s  active  young  brain,  turned  inward  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  was  still  on  herself. 

"Mother  is  plaintively  resigned  —  and  Aunt 
Harriet  has  been  a  trump.  She's  going  to  keep  her 
room.  It's  really  up  to  you." 

"Tome?" 

"To  your  staying  on.  Mother  trusts  you  abso- 
lutely. I  hope  you  noticed  that  you  got  one  of  the 
apostle  spoons  with  the  custard  she  sent  up  to  you 

63 


the  other  night.  And  she  did  n't  object  to  this  trip 
to-day.  Of  course,  as  she  said  herself,  it  is  n't  as  if 
you  were  young,  or  at  all  wild." 

In  spite  of  himself,  K.  was  rather  startled.  He  felt 
old  enough,  God  knew,  but  he  had  always  thought 
of  it  as  an  age  of  the  spirit.  How  old  did  this  child 
think  he  was? 

"I  have  promised  to  stay  on,  in  the  capacity  of 
watch-dog,  burglar-alarm,  and  occasional  recipient 
of  an  apostle  spoon  in  a  dish  of  custard.  Lightning- 
conductor,  too  —  your  mother  says  she  is  n't  afraid 
of  storms  if  there  is  a  man  in  the  house.  I  '11  stay,  of 
course." 

The  thought  of  his  age  weighed  on  him.  He  rose 
to  his  t'eei  and  threw  back  his  fine  shoulders. 

"Aunt  Harriet  and  your  mother  and  Christine 
and  her  husband-to-be,  whatever  his  name  i»  — 
we'll  be  a  happy  family.  But,  I  warn  you,  if  I 
ever  hear  of  Christine's  husband  getting  an  apostle 
spoon  —  " 

She  smiled  up  at  him.  "You  are  looking  very 
grand  to-day.  But  you  have  grass  stains  on  your 
white  trousers.  Perhaps  Katie  can  take  them  out." 

Quite  suddenly  K.  felt  that  she  thought  him  too 
old  for  such  frivolity  of  dress.  It  put  him  on  his 
mettle. 

"How  old  do  you  think  I  am,  Miss  Sidney?" 

She  considered,  giving  him,  after  her  kindly  way, 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 

"Not  over  forty,  I'm  sure." 
64 


"I'm  almost  thirty.  It  is  middle  age,  of  course, 
but  —  it  is  not  senility." 

She  was  genuinely  surprised,  almost  disturbed. 

"Perhaps  we'd  better  not  tell  mother,"  she  said. 
"You  don't  mind  being  thought  older?" 

"Not  at  all." 

Clearly  the  subject  of  his  years  did  not  interest 
her  vitally,  for  she  harked  back  to  the  grass  stains. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  not  saving,  as  you  promised. 
Those  are  new  clothes,  aren't  they?" 

"  No,  indeed.  Bought  years  ago  in  England  —  the 
<:oat  in  London,  the  trousers  in  Bath,  on  a  motor 
tour.  Cost  something  like  twelve  shillings.  Awfully 
cheap.  They  wear  them  for  cricket." 

That  was  a  wrong  move,  of  course.  Sidney  must 
hear  about  England;  and  she  marveled  politely,  in 
view  of  his  poverty,  about  his  being  there.  Poor  Le 
Moyne  floundered  in  a  sea  of  mendacity,  rose  to  a 
truth  here  and  there,  clutched  at  luncheon,  and 
achieved  safety  at  last. 

"To  think,"  said  Sidney,  "that  you  have  really 
been  across  the  ocean !  I  never  knew  but  one  person 
who  had  been  abroad.  It  is  Dr.  Max  Wilson." 

Back  again  to  Dr.  Max!  Le  Moyne,  unpacking 
sandwiches  from  a  basket,  was  aroused  by  a  sheer 
resentment  to  indiscretion. 

"You  like  this  Wilson  chap  pretty  well,  don't 
you?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  talk  about  him  rather  a  lot." 


This  was  sheer  recklessness,  of  course.  He  ex- 
pected  fury,  annihilation.  He  did  not  look  up, 
but  busied  himself  with  the  luncheon.  When  the  si- 
lence grew  oppressive,  he  ventured  to  glance  toward 
her.  She  was  leaning  forward,  her  chin  cupped  in 
her  palms,  staring  out  over  the  valley  that  stretched 
at  their  feet. 

"Don't  speak  to  me  for  a  minute  or  two,"  she 
said.  "  I  'm  thinking  over  what  you  have  just  said." 

Manlike,  having  raised  the  issue,  K.  would  have 
given  much  to  evade  it.  Not  that  he  had  owned  him- 
self in  love  with  Sidney.  Love  was  not  for  him.  But 
into  his  loneliness  and  despair  the  girl  had  come  like 
a  ray  of  light.  She  typified  that  youth  and  hope  that 
he  had  felt  slipping  away  from  him.  Through  her 
clear  eyes  he  was  beginning  to  see  a  new  world.  Lose 
her  he  must,  and  that  he  knew;  but  not  this  way. 

Down  through  the  valley  ran  a  shallow  river, 
making  noisy  pretensions  to  both  depth  and  fury. 
He  remembered  just  such  a  river  in  the  Tyrol,  with 
this  same  Wilson  on  a  rock,  holding  the  hand  of  a 
pretty  Austrian  girl,  while  he  snapped  the  shutter 
of  a  camera.  He  had  that  picture  somewhere  now; 
but  the  girl  was  dead,  and,  of  the  three,  Wilson  was 
the  only  one  who  had  met  life  and  vanquished  it. 

"  I  've  known  him  all  my  life,"  Sidney  said  at  last. 
"  You  're  perfectly  right  about  one  thing :  I  talk  about 
him  and  I  think  about  him.  I'm  being  candid,  be- 
cause what 's  the  use  of  being  friends  if  we  're  not 
frank?  I  admire  him  —  you'd  have  to  see  him  in 

66 


the  hospital,  with  every  one  deferring  to  him  and 
all  that,  to  understand.  And  when  you  think  of  a 
man  like  that,  who  holds  life  and  death  in  his 
hands,  of  course  you  rather  thrill.  I — I  honestly 
believe  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"If  that's  the  whole  thing,  that's  hardly  a  mad 
passion."  He  tried  to  smile;  succeeded  faintly. 

"Well,  of  course,  there's  this,  too.  I  know  he  '11 
never  look  at  me.  I  '11  be  one  of  forty  nurses ;  in- 
deed, for  three  months  I  '11  be  only  a  probationer. 
He  '11  probably  never  even  remember  I  'm  in  the 
hospital  at  all." 

"I  see.  Then,  if  you  thought  he  was  in  love  with 
you,  things  would  be  different?" 

"If  I  thought  Dr.  Max  Wilson  was  in  love  with 
me,"  said  Sidney  solemnly,  "I  'd  go  out  of  my  head 
with  joy." 

One  of  the  new  qualities  that  K.  Le  Moyne  was 
cultivating  was  of  living  each  day  for  itself.  Hav- 
ing no  past  and  no  future,  each  day  was  worth  ex- 
actly what  it  brought.  He  was  to  look  back  to  this 
day  with  mingled  feelings :  sheer  gladness  at  being 
out  in  the  open  with  Sidney;  the  memory  of  the 
shock  with  which  he  realized  that  she  was,  unknown 
to  herself,  already  in  the  throes  of  a  romantic  at- 
tachment for  Wilson ;  and,  long,  long  after,  when 
he  had  gone  down  to  the  depths  with  her  and  saved 
her  by  his  steady  hand,  with  something  of  mirth 
for  the  untoward  happening  that  closed  the  day. 

67 


K 


Sidney  fell  into  the  river. 

They  had  released  Reginald,  released  him  with 
fhe  tribute  of  a  shamefaced  tear  on  Sidney's  part 
and  a  handful  of  chestnuts  from  K.  The  little 
squirrel  had  squeaked  his  gladness,  and,  tail  erect, 
had  darted  into  the  grass. 

"Ungrateful  little  beast!"  said  Sidney,  and  dried 
her  eyes.  "Do  you  suppose  he'll  ever  think  of  the 
nuts  again,  or  find  them?" 

"He'll  be  all  right,"  K.  replied.   "The  little  beg 
gar  can  take  care  of  himself,  if  only  — " 

"If  only  what?" 

" If  only  he  is  n't  too  friendiy.  He's  apt  to  crawl 
into  the  pockets  of  any  one  who  happens  around." 

She  was  alarmed  at  that.  To  make  up  for  his  in- 
discretion, K.  suggested  a  descent  to  the  river.  She 
accepted  eagerly,  and  he  helped  her  down.  That 
was  another  memory  that  outlasted  the  day  —  her 
small  warm  hand  in  his;  the  time  she  slipped  and  he 
caught  her;  the  pain  in  her  eyes  at  one  of  his  thought- 
less remarks. 

"I'm  going  to  be  pretty  lonely,"  he  said,  when 
she  had  paused  in  the  descent  and  was  taking  a  stone 
out  of  her  low  shoe.  "  Reginald  gone,  and  you  going! 
I  shall  hate  to  come  home  at  night."  And  then,  see- 
ing her  wince:  "I've  been  whining  all  day.  For 
Heaven's  sake,  don't  look  like  that.  If  there's  one 
sort  of  man  I  detest  more  than  another,  it 's  a  man 
who  is  sorry  for  himself.  Do  you  suppose  your 
mother  would  object  if  we  stayed  out  here  at  the 

68 


hotel  for  supper?  I  Ve  ordered  a  moon,  orange* 
yellow  and  extra  size." 

"I  should  hate  to  have  anything  ordered  and 
wasted." 

"Then  we '11  stay." 

"It's  fearfully  extravagant." 

"  I  '11  be  thrifty  as  to  moons  while  you  are  in  tht 
hospital." 

So  it  was  settled.  And,  as  it  happened,  Sidney  had 
to  stay,  anyhow.  For,  having  perched  herself  out  in 
the  river  on  a  sugar-loaf  rock,  she  slid,  slowly  but 
with  a  dreadful  inevitability,  into  the  water.  K. 
happened  to  be  looking  in  another  direction.  So  it 
occurred  that  at  one  moment  Sidney  sat  on  a  rock, 
fluffy  white  from  head  to  feet,  entrancingly  pretty, 
and  knowing  it,  and  the  next  she  was  standing  neck 
deep  in  water,  much  too  startled  to  scream,  and  try- 
ing to  be  dignified  under  the  rather  trying  circum- 
stances. K.  had  not  looked  around.  The  splash  had 
been  a  gentle  one. 

"If  you  will  be  good  enough,"  said  Sidney,  with 
her  chin  well  up,  "to  give  me  your  hand  or  a  pole  or 
something  —  because  if  the.  river  rises  an  inch  I 
shall  drown." 

To  his  undying  credit,  K.  Le  Moyne  did  not  laugh 
when  he  turned  and  saw  her.  He  went  out  on  the 
sugar-loaf  rock,  and  lifted  her  bodily  up  its  slippery 
sides.  He  had  prodigious  strength,  in  spite  of  his 
leanness. 

69 


"Well!"  said  Sidney,  when  they  were  both  on  the 
rock,  carefully  balanced. 

"Are  you  cold?" 

"  Not  a  bit.  But  horribly  unhappy.  I  must  look  a 
sight."  Then,  remembering  her  manners,  as  the 
Street  had  it,  she  said  primly:  — 

"Thank  you  for  saving  me." 

"There  wasn't  any  danger,  really,  unless  —  un- 
less the  river  had  risen." 

And  then,  suddenly,  he  burst  into  delighted 
laughter,  the  first,  perhaps,  for  months.  He  shook 
with  it,  struggled  at  the  sight  of  her  injured  face  to 
restrain  it,  achieved  finally  a  degree  of  sobriety  by 
fixing  his  eyes  on  the  river-bank. 

"'When  you  have  quite  finished,"  said  Sidney 
severely,  "perhaps  you  will  take  me  to  the  hotel.  I 
dare  say  I  shall  have  to  be  washed  and  ironed." 

He  drew  her  cautiously  to  her  feet.  Her  wet  skirts 
clung  to  her;  her  shoes  were  sodden  and  heavy.  She 
clung  to  him  frantically,  her  eyes  on  the  river  below. 
With  the  touch  of  her  hands  the  man's  mirth  died. 
He  held  her  very  carefully,  very  tenderly,  as  one 
holds  something  infinitely  precious. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  same  day  Dr.  Max  operated  at  the  hospital.  It 
was  a  Wilson  day,  the  young  surgeon  having  six- 
cases.  One  of  the  innovations  Dr.  Max  had  made 
was  to  change  the  hour  for  major  operations  from 
early  morning  to  mid-afternoon.  He  could  do  as  well 
later  in  the  day,  —  his  nerves  were  steady,  and  un- 
counted numbers  of  cigarettes  did  not  make  his  hand 
shake,  —  and  he  hated  to  get  up  early. 

The  staff  had  fallen  into  the  way  of  attending 
Wilson's  operations.  His  technique  was  good;  but 
technique  alone  never  gets  a  surgeon  anywhere. 
Wilson  was  getting  results.  Even  the  most  jealous 
of  that  most  jealous  of  professions,  surgery,  had  to 
admit  that  he  got  results. 

Operations  were  over  for  the  afternoon.  The  last 
case  had  been  wheeled  out  of  the  elevator.  The  pit  of 
the  operating-room  was  in  disorder  —  towels  every- 
where, tables  of  instruments,  steaming  sterilizers. 
Orderlies  were  going  about,  carrying  out  linens, 
emptying  pans.  At  a  table  two  nurses  were  cleaning 
instruments  and  putting  them  away  in  their  glass 
cases.  Irrigators  were  being  emptied,  sponges  re- 
counted and  checked  off  on  written  lists. 

In  the  midst  of  the  confusion,  Wilson  stood  giving 
last  orders  to  the  interne  at  his  elbow.  As  he  talked 


K 


he  scoured  his  hands  and  arms  with  a  small  brush; 
bits  of  lather  flew  off  on  to  the  tiled  floor.  His  speech 
was  incisive,  vigorous.  At  the  hospital  they  said  his 
nerves  were  iron;  there  was  no  let-down  after  the 
day's  work.  The  internes  worshiped  and  feared  him. 
He  was  just,  but  without  mercy.  To  be  able  to  work 
like  that,  so  certainly,  with  so  sure  a  touch,  and  to 
look  like  a  Greek  god!  Wilson's  only  rival,  a  gyne- 
cologist named  O'Hara,  got  results,  too;  but  he 
sweated  and  swore  through  his  operations,  was  not 
too  careful  as  to  asepsis,  and  looked  like  a  gorilla. 

The  day  had  been  a  hard  one.    The  operating- 
room  nurses  were  fagged.   Two  or  three  probation- 
ers had  been  sent  to  help  clean  up,  and  a  senior 
mrse.  Wilson's  eyes  caught  the  nurse's  eyes  as  she 
passed  him. 

,  "  Here,  too,  Miss  Harrison ! "  he  said  gayly.  "  Have 
they  set  you  on  my  trail?" 

With  the  eyes  of  the  room  on  her,  the  girl  answered 
primly :  — 

"I'm  to  be  in  your  office  in  the  mornings,  Dr. 
Wilson,  and  anywhere  I  am  needed  in  the  after- 
noons." 

"And  your  vacation?" 

"  I  shall  take  it  when  Miss  Simpson  comes  back." 

Although  he  went  on  at  once  with  his  conversa- 
tion with  the  interne,  he  still  heard  the  click  of  her 
heels  about  the  room.  He  had  not  lost  the  fact  that 
she  had  flushed  when  he  spoke  to  her.  The  mischief 
that  was  latent  in  him  came  to  the  surface.  When 

72 


tie  had  rinsed  his  hands,  he  followed  her,  carrying 
the  towel  to  where  she  stood  talking  to  the  super- 
intendent  of  the  training-school. 

"Thanks   very    much,    Miss    Gregg,"   he    said 
'"  Everything  went  off  nicely." 

"I  was  scrry  about  that  catgut.  We  have  no 
trouble  with  what  we  prepare  ourselves.  But  with 
so  many  operations  — " 

He  was  in  a  magnanimous  mood.  He  smiled  at 
Miss  Gregg,  who  was  elderly  and  gray,  but  visibly 
his  creature. 

"That's  all  right.  It's  the  first  time,  and  of 
course  it  will  be  the  last." 

"The  sponge  list,  doctor." 

He  glanced  over  it,  noting  accurately  sponges 
prepared,  used,  turned  in.  But  he  missed  no  gesture 
of  the  girl  who  stood  beside  Miss  Gregg. 

"All  right."  He  returned  the  list.  "That  was  a 
mighty  pretty  probationer  I  brought  you  yesterday." 

Two  small  frowning  lines  appeared  between  Miss 
Harrison's  dark  brows.  He  caught  them,  caught 
her  somber  eyes  too,  and  was  amused  and  rather 
stimulated. 

"She  is  very  young." 

"Prefer  'em  young,"  said  Dr.  Max.  "Willing  tc 
Searn  at  that  age.  You  '11  have  to  watch  her,  thoughc 
You  '11  have  all  the  internes  buzzing  around,  neglect- 
ing business." 

Miss  Gregg  rather  fluttered.  She  was  divided  be- 
tween her  disapproval  of  internes  at  all  times  and  o* 

73 


young  probationers  generally,  and  her  allegiance  t& 
the  brilliant  surgeon  whose  word  was  rapidly  becom- 
ing law  in  the  hospital.  When  an  emergency  of  the 
cleaning  up  called  her  away,  doubt  still  in  her  eyes, 
Wilson  was  left  alone  with  Miss  Harrison. 

"Tired?"  He  adopted  the  gentle,  almost  tender 
Cone  that  made  most  women  his  slaves. 

"A  little.    It  is  warm." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  this  evening?  Any 
lectures?" 

"Lectures  are  over  for  the  summer.  I  shall  go  to 
prayers,  and  after  that  to  the  roof  for  air." 

There  was  a  note  of  bitterness  in  her  voice.  Under 
the  eyes  of  the  other  nurses,  she  was  carefully  con- 
tained. They  might  have  been  outlining  the  morn- 
mg's  work  at  his  office. 

"The  hand  lotion,  please." 

She  brought  it  obediently  and  poured  it  into  his 
cupped  hands.  The  solutions  of  the  operating-room 
played  havoc  with  the  skin:  the  surgeons,  and  es- 
pecially Wilson,  soaked  their  hands  plentifully  with 
a  healing  lotion. 

Over  the  bottle  their  eyes  met  again,  and  this 
time  the  girl  smiled  faintly. 

"  Can't  you  take  a  little  ride  to-night  and  cool  off? 
I  '11  have  the  car  wherever  you  say.  A  ride  and  some 
supper  —  how  does  it  sound?  You  could  get  awa^ 
at  seven  —  " 

*'  Miss  Gregg  is  coming!" 

With  an  impassive  face,  the  girl  took  the  bottle 

74 


away.  The  workers  of  the  operating-room  surged 
between  them.  An  interne  presented  an  order- 
book;  moppers  had  come  in  and  waited  to  clean  the 
tiled  floor.  There  seemed  no  chance  for  Wilson  to 
speak  to  Miss  Harrison  again. 

But  he  was  clever  with  the  guile  of  the  pursuing 
male.  Eyes  of  all  on  him,  he  turned  at  the  door  of 
the  wardrobe-room,  where  he  would  exchange  his 
white  garments  for  street  clothing,  and  spoke  to  her 
over  the  heads  of  a  dozen  nurses. 

"That  patient's  address  that  I  had  forgotten, 
Miss  Harrison,  is  the  corner  of  the  Park  and  Elling- 
ton Avenue." 

"Thank  you." 

She  played  the  game  well,  was  quite  calm.  He  ad- 
mired her  coolness.  Certainly  she  was  pretty,  and 
cortainly,  too,  she  was  interested  in  him.  The  hurt 
to  his  pride  of  a  few  nights  before  was  healed.  He 
went  whistling  into  the  wardrobe-room.  As  he 
turned  he  caught  the  interne's  eye,  and  there  passed 
between  them  a  glance  of  complete  comprehension, 
The  interne  grinned. 

The  room  was  not  empty.  His  brother  was  there, 
listening  to  the  comments  of  O'Hara,  his  friendly 
rival. 

"Good  work,  boy!"  said  O'Hara,  and  clapped  a 
hairy  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "That  last  case  was  a 
wonder.  I  'm  proud  of  you,  and  your  brother  here 
is  indecently  exalted.  It  was  the  Edwardes  method,, 
was  n't  it?  I  saw  it  done  at  his  clinic  in  New  York." 

75 


"Glad  you  liked  it.    Yes.   Edwardes  was  a  pal  ot 
mine  in  Berlin.  A  great  surgeon,  too,  poor  old  chap ! " 
'  There  are  n't  three  men  in  the  country  with  the 
nerve  and  the  hand  for  it." 

O'Hara  went  out,  glowing  with  his  own  magna- 
nimity. Deep  in  his  heart  was  a  gnawing  of  envy  — 
not  for  himself,  but  for  his  work.  These  young  fel- 
lows with  no  family  ties,  who  could  run  over  to 
Europe  and  bring  back  anything  new  that  was  worth 
while,  they  had  it  all  over  the  older  men.  Not  that 
he  would  have  changed  things.  God  forbid! 

Dr.  Ed  stood  by  and  waited  while  his  brother  got 
into  his  street  clothes.  He  was  rather  silent.  There 
were  many  times  when  he  wished  that  their  mother 
could  have  lived  to  see  how  he  had  carried  out  his 
promise  to  "make  a  man  of  Max."  This  was  one  of 
them.  Not  that  he  took  any  credit  for  Max's  bril- 
liant career  —  but  he  would  have  liked  her  to  know 
that  things  were  going  well.  He  had  a  picture  of  her 
over  his  office  desk.  Sometimes  he  wondered  what 
she  would  think  of  his  own  untidy  methods  com- 
pared with  Max's  extravagant  order  —  of  the  bag, 
for  instance,  with  the  dog's  collar  in  it,  and  other 
things.  On  these  occasions  he  always  determined  to 
clear  out  the  bag. 

"I  guess  I'll  be  getting  along,"  he  said.  "Will 
you  be  home  to  dinner?" 

"  I  think  not.  I  '11  —  I  'm  going  to  run  out  of  town, 
and  eat  where  it's  cool." 

The  Street  was  notoriously  hot  in  summer.  When 

76 


Dr.  Max  was  newly  home  from  Europe,  and  Dr.  Ed 
was  selling  a  painfully  acquired  bond  or  two  to  fur- 
nish the  new  offices  downtown,  the  brothers  had  oc- 
casionally gone  together,  by  way  of  the  trolley,  to 
the  White  Springs  Hotel  for  supper.  Those  had  been 
gala  days  for  the  older  man.  To  hear  names  that  he 
had  read  with  awe,  and  mispronounced,  most  of  his 
life,  roll  off  Max's  tongue —  "Old  Steinmetz"  and 
''that  ass  of  a  Heydenreich " ;  to  hear  the  medical 
and  surgical  gossip  of  the  Continent,  new  drugs,  new 
technique,  the  small  heart-burnings  of  the  clinics, 
student  scandal  —  had  brought  into  his  drab  days  a 
touch  of  color.  But  that  was  over  now.  Max  had 
new  friends,  new  social  obligations ;  his  time  was 
taken  up.  And  pride  would  not  allow  the  older 
brother  to  show  how  he  missed  the  early  days. 

Forty- two  he  was,  and,  what  with  sleepless  nights 
and  twenty  years  of  hurried  food,  he  looked  fifty. 
Fifty,  then,  to  Max's  thirty. 

"There's  a  roast  of  beef.  It's  a  pity  to  cook  a 
roast  for  one." 

Wasteful,  too,  this  cooking  of  food  for  two  and 
only  one  to  eat  it.  A  roast  of  beef  meant  a  visit,  in 
Dr.  Ed's  modest-paying  clientele.  He  still  paid  the 
expenses  of  the  house  on  the  Street. 

"Sorry,  old  man;  I've  made  another  arrange- 
ment." 

They  left  the  hospital  together.  Everywhere  the 
younger  man  received  the  homage  of  success.  The 
elevator-man  bowed  and  flung  the  doors  open,  with 

77 


a  smile;  the  pharmacy  clerk,  the  doorkeeper,  even, 
the  convalescent  patient  who  was  polishing  the  great 
brass  doorplate,  tendered  their  tribute.  Dr.  Ed 
looked  neither  to  right  nor  left. 

At  the  machine  they  separated.  But  Dr.  Ed 
stood  for  a  moment  with  his  hand  on  the  car. 

"  I  was  thinking,  up  there  this  afternoon,"  he  said 
slowly,  "that  I'm  not  sure  I  want  Sidney  Page  to- 
become  a  nurse." 

"Why?" 

"There's  a  good  deal  in  life  that  a  girl  need  not 
know  —  not,  at  least,  until  her  husband  tells  her. 
Sidney's  been  guarded,  and  it's  bound  to  be  a 
shock." 

"It's  her  own  choice." 

"  Exactly.  A  child  reaches  out  for  the  fire." 

The  motor  had  started.  For  the  moment,  at 
least,  the  younger  Wilson  had  no  interest  in  Sidney 
Page. 

"She'll  manage  all  right.  Plenty  of  other  girls 
have  taken  the  training  and  come  through  without 
spoiling  their  zest  for  life." 

Already,  as  the  car  moved  off,  his  mind  was  on 
his  appointment  for  the  evening. 

Sidney,  after  her  involuntary  bath  in  the  river, 
had  gone  into  temporary  eclipse  at  the  White  Springs 
Hotel.  In  the  oven  of  the  kitchen  stove  sat  her  twa 
small  white  shoes,  stuffed  with  paper  so  that  they 
might  dry  in  shape.  Back  in  a  detached  laundry ,. 

78 


a  sympathetic  maid  was  ironing  various  soft  white 
garments,  and  singing  as  she  worked. 

Sidney  sat  in  a  rocking-chair  in  a  hot  bedroom. 
She  was  carefully  swathed  in  a  sheet  from  neck  to 
toes,  except  for  her  arms,  and  she  was  being  as  phil- 
osophic as  possible.  After  all,  it  was  a  good  chance 
to  think  things  over.  She  had  very  little  time  tc 
think,  generally. 

She  meant  to  give  up  Joe  Drummond.  She  did  n't 
want  to  hurt  him.  Well,  there  was  that  to  think 
over,  and  a  matter  of  probation  dresses  to  be  talked 
over  later  with  her  Aunt  Harriet.  Also,  there  was  a 
great  deal  of  advice  to  K.  Le  Moyne,  who  was  ridic- 
ulously extravagant,  before  trusting  the  house  to 
him.  She  folded  her  white  arms  and  prepared  to 
think  over  all  these  things.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she 
went  mentally,  like  an  arrow  to  its  mark,  to  the 
younger  Wilson  —  to  his  straight  figure  in  its  white 
coat,  to  his  dark  eyes  and  heavy  hair,  to  the  cleft  in 
his  chin  when  he  smiled. 

"You  know,  I  have  always  been  more  than  hall 
in  love  with  you  myself  ..." 

Some  one  tapped  lightly  at  the  door.  She  was 
back  again  in  the  stuffy  hotel  room,  clutching  the 
sheet  about  her. 

"Yes?" 

"  It's  Le  Moyne.  Are  you  all  right?" 

"  Perfectly.   How  stupid  it  must  be  for  you!" 

"I'm  doing  very  well.  The  maid  will  soon  be 
ready.  What  shall  I  order  for  supper?" 

79 


K 


°*  Any  thing.   I 'm  starving." 

Whatever  visions  K.  Le  Moyne  may  have  had  ot 
a  chill  or  of  a  feverish  cold  were  dispelled  by  that. 

"The  moon  has  arrived,  as  per  specifications, 
Shall  we  eat  on  the  terrace?" 

"  I  have  never  eaten  on  a  terrace  in  my  life.  I  'o 
love  it." 

"  I  think  your  shoes  have  shrunk." 

"Flatterer!  "  She  laughed.  "Go  away  and  order 
supper.  And  I  can  see  fresh  lettuce.  Shall  we  have 
a  salad?" 

K.  Le  Moyne  assured  her  through  the  door  that 
he  would  order  a  salad,  and  prepared  to  descend. 

But  he  stood  for  a  moment  in  front  of  the  closed 
door,  for  the  mere  sound  of  her  moving,  beyond  it, 
Things  had  gone  very  far  with  the  Pages'  roomer 
that  day  in  the  country;  not  so  far  as  they  were  to 
go,  but  far  enough  to  let  him  see  on  the  brink  of 
what  misery  he  stood. 

He  could  not  go  away.  He  had  promised  her  to 
stay:  he  was  needed.  He  thought  he  could  have  en- 
dured seeing  her  marry  Joe,  had  she  cared  for  the 
boy.  That  way,  at  least,  lay  safety  for  her.  The  boy 
had  fidelity  and  devotion  written  large  over  him. 
But  this  new  complication  • —  her  romantic  inter- 
est in  Wilson,  the  surgeon's  reciprocal  interest  in 
her,  with  what  he  knew  of  the  man  —  made  him 
quail. 

From  the  top  of  the  narrow  staircase  to  the  foot 
and  he  had  lived  a  year's  torment!  At  the  foot,  how- 

80 


ever,  he  was  startled  out  of  his  reverie.  Joe  Drum- 
mond  stood  there  waiting  for  him,  his  blue  eyes 
recklessly  alight. 

"You  —  you  dog!"  said  Joe. 

There  were  people  in  the  hotel  parlor.  Le  Moyne 
took  the  frenzied  boy  by  the  elbow  and  led  him  past 
the  door  to  the  empty  porch. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "if  you  will  keep  your  voice 
down,  I  '11  listen  to  what  you  have  to  say." 

"You  know  what  I  Ve  got  to  say." 

This  failing  to  draw  from  K.  Le  Moyne  anything 
but  his  steady  glance,  Joe  jerked  his  arm  free  and 
clenched  his  fist. 

"What  did  you  bring  her  out  here  for?" 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  owe  you  any  explanation, 
but  I  am  willing  to  give  you  one.  I  brought  her  out 
here  for  a  trolley  ride  and  a  picnic  luncheon.  Inci- 
dentally we  brought  the  ground  squirrel  out  and 
set  him  free." 

He  was  sorry  for  the  boy.  Life  not  having  been 
all  beer  and  skittles  to  him,  he  knew  that  Joe  was 
suffering,  and  was  marvelously  patient  with  him. 

"Where  is  she  now?" 

"She  had  the  misfortune  to  fall  in  the  river.  She 
is  upstairs."  And,  seeing  the  light  of  unbelief  in 
Joe's  eyes:  "  If  you  care  to  make  a  tour  of  investiga- 
tion, you  will  find  that  I  am  entirely  truthful.  In 
the  laundry  a  maid  — 

"She  is  engaged  to  me"  —  doggedly.  "Every- 
body in  the  neighborhood  knows  it,  and  yet  you 

81 


bring  her  out  here  for  a  picnic!  It's  —  it's  damned 
rotten  treatment." 

His  fist  had  unclenched.  Before  K.  Le  Moyne's 
eyes  his  own  fell.  He  felt  suddenly  young  and  futile ; 
his  just  rage  turned  to  blustering  in  his  ears. 

"Now,  be  honest  with  yourself.  Is  there  really 
an  engagement?" 

"Yes,"  doggedly. 

"  Even  in  that  case,  is  n't  it  rather  arrogant  to  say 
that  • —  that  the  young  lady  in  question  can  accept 
no  ordinary  friendly  attentions  from  another  man?" 

Utter  astonishment  left  Joe  almost  speechless, 
The  Street,  of  course,  regarded  an  engagement  as  a 
setting  aside  of  the  affianced  couple,  an  isolation  of 
two,  than  which  marriage  itself  was  not  more  a  soli- 
tude cl  deux.  After  a  moment:  — 

"I  don't  know  where  you  came  from,"  he  said, 
"but  around  here  decent  men  cut  out  when  a  girl's 
engaged." 

"I  see!" 

"What's  more,  what  do  we  know  about  you? 
Who  are  you,  anyhow?  I  Ve  looked  you  up.  Even 
at  your  office  they  don't  know  anything.  You  may 
be  all  right,  but  how  do  I  know  it?  And,  even  if  you 
are,  renting  a  room  in  the  Page  house  does  n't  en- 
title you  to  interfere  with  the  family.  You  get  her 
into  trouble  and  I'll  kill  you!" 

It  took  courage,  that  speech,  with  K.  Le  Moyne 
towering  five  inches  above  him  and  growing  a  little 
white  about  the  lips. 

82 


"Are  you  going  to  say  all  these  things  to  Sidney?" 

"Does  she  allow  you  to  call  her  Sidney?" 

"Are  you?" 

"  I  am.  And  I  am  going  to  find  out  why  you  were 
upstairs  just  now." 

Perhaps  never  in  his  twenty-two  years  had  young 
Drummond  been  so  near  a  thrashing.  Fury  that  he 
was  ashamed  of  shook  Le  Moyne.  For  very  fear  of 
himself,  he  thrust  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his 
Norfolk  coat. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "You  go  to  her  with  just 
one  of  these  ugly  insinuations,  and  I  '11  take  mighty 
good  care  that  you  are  sorry  for  it.  I  don't  care  to 
threaten.  You're  younger  than  I  am,  and  lighter, 
But  if  you  are  going  to  behave  like  a  bad  child,  you 
deserve  a  licking,  and  I  '11  give  it  to  you." 

An  overflow  from  the  parlor  poured  out  on  the 
porch.  Le  Moyne  had  got  himself  in  hand  some- 
what. He  was  still  angry,  but  the  look  in  Joe's  eyes 
startled  him.  He  put  a  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder, 

"You're  wrong,  old  man,"  he  said.  "You're  in- 
sulting the  girl  you  care  for  by  the  things  you  arc 
thinking.  And,  if  it 's  any  comfort  to  you,  I  have  nc 
intention  of  interfering  in  any  way.  You  can  count 
me  out.  It's  between  you  and  her." 

Joe  picked  his  straw  hat  from  a  chair  and  stood 
turning  it  in  his  hands. 

"Even  if  you  don't  care  for  her,  how  do  I  know 
she  is  n't  crazy  about  you?" 

"  My  word  of  honor,  she  is  n't.'* 

83 


"She  sends  you  notes  to  McKeesV 

"Just  to  clear  the  air,  I  '11  show  it  to  you.  It's  no 
breach  of  confidence.  It's  about  the  hospital." 

Into  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat  he  dived  and 
brought  up  a  wallet.  The  wallet  had  had  a  name  on 
it  in  gilt  letters  that  had  been  carefully  scraped  off. 
But  Joe  did  not  wait  to  see  the  note. 

"Oh,  damn  the  hospital!"  he  said  —  and  went 
swiftly  down  the  steps  and  into  the  gathering  twi- 
light of  the  June  night. 

It  was  only  when  he  reached  the  street-car,  and 
sat  huddled  in  a  corner,  that  he  remembered  some- 
thing. 

Only  about  the  Hospital  —  but  Le  Moyne  had 
kept  the  note,  treasuied  it!  Joe  was  not  subtle,  not 
even  clever;  but  he  was  a  lover,  and  he  knew  the 
ways  of  love.  The  Pages'  roomer  was  in  love  with 
Sidney  whether  he  knew  it  or  not. 


CHAPTER    VII 

CARLOTTA  HARRISON  pleaded  a  headache,  and  was 
excused  from  the  operating-room  and  from  prayers. 

" I'm  sorry  about  the  vacation,"  Miss  Gregg  said 
kindly,  "but  in  a  day  or  two  I  can  let  you  off.  Go 
out  now  and  get  a  little  air." 

The  girl  managed  to  dissemble  the  triumph  in  her 
•eyes. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  languidly,  and  turned 
away.  Then:  "About  the  vacation,  I  am  not  in 
a  hurry.  If  Miss  Simpson  needs  a  few  days  to 
straighten  things  out,  I  can  stay  on  with  Dr.  Wil- 
son." 

Young  women  on  the  eve  of  a  vacation  were  not 
usually  so  reasonable.  Miss  Gregg  was  grateful. 

"She  will  probably  need  a  week.  Thank  you.  I 
wish  more  of  the  girls  were  as  thoughtful,  with  the 
house  full  and  operations  all  day  and  every  day." 

Outside  the  door  of  the  anaesthetizing-room  Miss 
Harrison's  languor  vanished.  She  sped  along  cor- 
ridors and  up  the  stairs,  not  waiting  for  the  deliber- 
ate elevator.  Inside  of  her  room,  she  closed  and 
bolted  the  door,  and,  standing  before  her  mirror, 
gazed  long  at  her  dark  eyes  and  bright  hair.  Then 
she  proceeded  briskly  with  her  dressing. 

Carlotta  Harrison  was  not  a  child.    Though  she 


K 


was  only  three  years  older  than  Sidney,  her  experi- 
ence of  life  was  as  of  three  to  Sidney's  one.  The  prod- 
uct of  a  curious  marriage,  —  when  Tommy  Harri- 
son of  Harrison's  Minstrels,  touring  Spain  with  his 
troupe,  had  met  the  pretty  daughter  of  a  Spanish 
shopkeeper  and  eloped  with  her,  —  she  had  certain 
qualities  of  both,  a  Yankee  shrewdness  and  capacity 
that  made  her  a  capable  nurse,  complicated  by  oc- 
casional outcroppings  of  southern  Europe,  furious 
bursts  of  temper,  slow  and  smouldering  vindictive- 
ness.  A  passionate  creature,  in  reality,  smothered 
under  hereditary  Massachusetts  caution. 

She  was  well  aware  of  the  risks  of  the  evening's 
adventure.  The  only  dread  she  had  was  of  the  dis- 
covery of  her  escapade  by  the  hospital  authorities, 
Lines  were  sharply  drawn.  Nurses  were  forbidden 
more  than  the  exchange  of  professional  conversation 
with  the  staff.  In  that  world  of  her  choosing,  of  hard 
work  and  little  play,  of  service  and  self-denial  and 
vigorous  rules  of  conduct,  discovery  meant  dis- 
missal. 

She  put  on  a  soft  black  dress,  open  at  the  throat, 
and  with  a  wide  white  collar  and  cuffs  of  some  sheer 
material.  Her  yellow  hair  was  drawn  high  under  her 
low  black  hat.  From  her  Spanish  mother  she  had 
learned  to  please  the  man,  not  herself.  She  guessed 
that  Dr.  Max  would  wish  her  to  be  inconspicuous, 
and  she  dressed  accordingly.  Then,  being  a  cau- 
tious person,  she  disarranged  her  bed  slightly  and 
thumped  a  hollow  into  her  pillow.  The  nurses' 

86 


rooms  were  subject  to  inspection,  and  she  had 
pleaded  a  headache. 

She  was  exactly  on  time.  Dr.  Max,  driving  up  to 
the  corner  five  minutes  late,  found  her  there,  quite 
matter-of-fact  but  exceedingly  handsome,  and  "ac- 
knowledged the  evening's  adventure  much  to  his 
taste. 

"A  little  air  first,  and  then  supper  —  how 's  that?  " 

"Air  first,  please.    I'm  very  tired." 

He  turned  the  car  toward  the  suburbs,  and  then, 
bending  toward  her,  smiled  into  her  eyes. 

"Well,  this  is  life!" 

" I'm  cool  for  the  first  time  to-day." 

After  that  they  spoke  very  little.  Even  Wilson's 
superb  nerves  had  felt  the  strain  of  the  afternoon, 
and  under  the  girl's  dark  eyes  were  purplish  shad- 
ows. She  leaned  back,  weary  but  luxuriously  con- 
tent. 

Once  he  turned  and  looked  down  at  her. 

"Not  uneasy,  are  you?" 

"Not  particularly.  I'm  too  comfortable.  But  I 
hope  we're  not  seen." 

"  Even  if  we  are,  why  not?  You  are  going  with  me 
to  a  case.  I  've  driven  Miss  Simpson  about  a  lot." 

It  was  almost  eight  when  he  turned  the  car  into 
the  drive  of  the  White  Springs  Hotel.  The  six-to- 
eight  supper  was  almost  over.  One  or  two  motor 
parties  were  preparing  for  the  moonlight  drive  back 
to  the  city.  All  around  was  virgin  country,  sweet 
with  early  summer  odors  of  new-cut  grass,  of  blos- 

37 


soming  trees  and  warm  earth.  On  the  grass  terrace 
over  the  valley,  where  ran  Sidney's  unlucky  river, 
was  a  magnolia  full  of  creamy  blossoms  among 
waxed  leaves.  Its  silhouette  against  the  sky  was 
quaintly  heart-shaped. 

Under  her  mask  of  languor,  Carlotta's  heart  was 
beating  wildly.  What  an  adventure!  What  a  night! 
Let  him  lose  his  head  a  little;  she  could  ke°o  hers. 
If  she  were  skillful  and  played  things  right,  who 
could  tell?  To  marry  him,  to  leave  behind  the  drudg- 
ery of  the  hospital,  to  feel  safe  as  she  had  not  felt  for 
years,  that  was  a  stroke  to  play  for! 

The  magnolia  was  just  beside  her.  She  reached  up 
and,  breaking  off  one  of  the  heavy-scented  flowers, 
placed  it  in  the  bosom  of  her  black  dress. 

Sidney  and  K.  Le  Moyne  were  dining  together. 
The  novelty  of  the  experience  had  made  her  eyes 
shine  like  stars.  She  saw  only  the  magnolia  tree 
shaped  like  a  heart,  the  terrace  edged  with  low  shrub- 
bery, and  beyond  the  faint  gleam  that  was  the  river. 
For  her  the  dish-washing  clatter  of  the  kitchen  was 
stilled,  the  noises  from  the  bar  were  lost  in  the  ripple 
of  the  river;  the  scent  of  the  grass  killed  the  odor  of 
stale  beer  that  wafted  out  through  the  open  windows. 
The  unshaded  glare  of  the  lights  behind  her  in  the 
house  was  eclipsed  by  the  crescent  edge  of  the  rising 
moon.  Dinner  was  over.  Sidney  was  experiencing 
the  rare  treat  of  after-dinner  coffee. 

Le  Moyne,  grave  and  contained,  sat  across  from 

88 


ner.  To  give  so  much  pleasure,  and  so  easily!  How 
young  she  was,  and  radiant !  No  wonder  the  boy  was 
mad  about  her.  She  fairly  held  out  her  arms  to  life. 

Ah,  that  was  too  bad!  Another  table  was  being 
brought;  they  were  not  to  be  alone.  But  what 
roused  in  him  violent  resentment  only  appealed  to 
Sidney's  curiosity. 

"Two  places!"  she  commented.  "'Lovers,  of 
course.  Or  perhaps  honeymooners." 

K.  tried  to  fall  into  her  mood. 

"A  box  of  candy  against  a  good  cigar,  they  are  z 
stolid  married  couple." 

"How  shall  we  know?" 

"That's  easy.  If  they  loll  back  and  watch  the 
kitchen  door,  I  win.  If  they  lean  forward,  elbows  on 
the  table,  and  talk,  you  get  the  candy." 

Sidney,  who  had  been  leaning  forward,  talking 
eagerly  over  the  table,  suddenly  straightened  and 
flushed. 

Carlotta  Harrison  came  out  alone.  Although  thf- 
tapping  of  her  heels  was  dulled  by  the  grass,  al 
though  she  had  exchanged  her  cap  for  the  black  hat, 
Sidney  knew  her  at  once.  A  sort  of  thrill  ran  over 
her.  It  was  the  pretty  nurse  from  Dr.  Wilson's 
office.  Was  it  possible  —  but  of  course  not!  The 
book  of  rules  stated  explicitly  that  such  things  were 
forbidden. 

"  Don't  turn  around,"  she  said  swiftly.  "  It  is  the 
Miss  Harrison  I  told  you  about.  She  is  looking  at 
us." 

89 


Cariotta's  eyes  were  blinded  for  a  moment  by 
the  glare  of  the  house  lights.  She  dropped  into  her 
chair,  with  a  flash  of  resentment  at  the  proximity 
of  the  other  table.  She  languidly  surveyed  its  two 
occupants.  Then  she  sat  up,  her  eyes  on  Le  Moyne's 
grave  profile  turned  toward  the  valley. 

Lucky  for  her  that  Wilson  had  stopped  in  the  bar, 
that  Sidney's  instinctive  good  manners  forbade  her 
staring,  that  only  the  edge  of  the  summer  moon 
shone  through  the  trees.  She  went  white  and 
clutched  the  edge  of  the  table,  with  her  eyes  closed. 
That  gave  her  quick  brain  a  chance.  It  was  mad- 
.  ness,  June  madness.  She  was  always  seeing  him, 
even  in  her  dreams.  This  man  was  older,  much 
older.  She  looked  again. 

She  had  not  been  mistaken.  Here,  and  after  all 
v:hese  months!  K.  Le  Moyne,  quite  unconscious  of 
her  presence,  looked  down  into  the  valley. 

Wilson  appeared  on  the  wooden  porch  above  the 
terrace,  and  stood,  his  eyes  searching  the  half  light 
for  her.  If  he  came  down  to  her,  the  man  at  the  next 
table  might  turn,  would  see  her  — 

She  rose  and  went  swiftly  back  toward  the  hotel. 
.\11  the  gayety  was  gone  out  of  the  evening  for  her, 
but  she  forced  a  lightness  she  did  not  feel :  — 

"  It  is  so  dark  and  depressing  out  there  —  it 
jnakes  me  sad." 

"Surely  you  do  not  want  to  dine  in  the  house?" 

"Do  you  mind?" 

"Just  as  you  wish.  This  is  your  evening." 

QO 


K 


But  he  was  not  pleased.  The  prospect  of  the  glar< 
ing  lights  and  soiled  linen  of  the  dining-room  jarred 
on  his  aesthetic  sense.  He  wanted  a  setting  for  him* 
self,  for  the  girl.  Environment  was  vital  to  him. 
But  when,  in  the  full  light  of  the  moon,  he  saw  the 
purplish  shadows  under  her  eyes,  he  forgot  his  resent- 
ment. She  had  had  a  hard  day.  She  was  tired.  His 
easy  sympathies  were  roused.  He  leaned  over  and 
ran  his  hand  caressingly  along  her  bare  rorearm. 

"  Your  wish  is  my  law  —  to-night,"  he  said  softly, 

After  all,  the  evening  was  a  disappointment  to 
him.  The  spontaneity  had  gone  out  of  it,  for  some 
reason.  The  girl  who  had  thrilled  to  his  glance  those 
two  mornings  in  his  office,  whose  somber  eyes  had 
met  his,  fire  for  fire,  across  the  operating-room,  was 
not  playing  up.  She  sat  back  in  her  chair,  eating 
little,  starting  at  every  step.  Her  eyes,  which  by 
every  rule  of  the  game  should  have  been  gazing  into 
his,  were  fixed  on  the  oilcloth-covered  passage  out- 
side the  door. 

"I  think,  after  all,  you  are  frightened!" 

"Terribly." 

"A  little  danger  adds  to  the  zest  of  things.  You 
know  what  Nietzsche  says  about  that." 

"I  am  not  fond  of  Nietzsche."  Then,  with  an 
effort:  "What  does  he  say?" 

"  'Two  things  are  wanted  by  the  true  man  — 
danger  and  play.  Therefore  he  seeketh  woman  a<? 
the  most  dangerous  of  toys.'  ' 

"Women  are  dangerous  only  when  you  think  of 


them  as  toys.  When  a  man  finds  that  a  woman  can 
reason,  —  do  anything  but  feel,  —  he  regards  hei 
as  a  menace.  But  the  reasoning  woman  is  really 
less  dangerous  than  the  other  sort." 

This  was  more  like  the  real  thing.  To  talk  careful 
abstractions  like  this,  with  beneath  each  abstrac- 
tion its  concealed  personal  application,  to  talk  of 
woman  and  look  in  her  eyes,  to  discuss  new  phi- 
losophies w'th  their  freedoms,  to  discard  old  creeds 
and  old  moralities  —  that  was  his  game.  Wilson  be* 
came  content,  interested  again.  The  girl  was  nimble- 
minded.  She  challenged  his  philosophy  and  gave 
him  a  chance  to  defend  it.  With  the  conviction,  as 
their  meal  went  on,  that  Le  Moyne  and  his  compan« 
ion  must  surely  have  gone,  she  gained  ease. 

It  was  only  by  wild  driving  that  she  got  back  to 
the  hospital  by  ten  o'clock. 

Wilson  left  her  at  the  corner,  well  content  with 
himself.  He  had  had  the  rest  he  needed  in  congenial 
company.  The  girl  stimulated  his  interest.  She  was 
mental,  but  not  too  mental.  And  he  approved  of  his 
own  attitude.  He  had  been  discreet.  Even  if  she 
talked,  there  was  nothing  to  tell.  But  he  felt  confi- 
dent that  she  would  not  talk. 

As  he  drove  up  the  Street,  he  glanced  across  at 
the  Page  house.  Sidney  was  there  on  the  doorstep, 
talking  to  a  tall  man  who  stood  below  and  looked  up 
at  her.  Wilson  settled  his  tie,  in  the  darkness.  Sid- 
ney was  a  mighty  pretty  girl.  The  June  night  was 
in  his  blood.  He  was  sorry  he  had  not  kissed  Car* 

Q2 


lotta  good-night.  He  rather  thought,  now  he  looked 
back,  she  had  expected  it. 

As  he  got  out  of  his  car  at  the  curb,  a  young  man 
who  had  been  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the  tree-box 
moved  quickly  away. 

Wilson  smiled  after  him  in  the  darkness, 

''That  you,  Joe?"  he  called. 

But  the  boy  went  on. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SIDNEY  entered  the  hospital  as  a  probationei  early 
in  August.  Christine  was  to  be  married  in  Septem- 
ber to  Palmer  Howe,  and,  with  Harriet  ana  K.  in 
the  house,  she  felt  that  she  could  safely  leave  her 
mother. 

The  balcony  outside  the  parlor  was  already  under 
way.  On  the  night  before  she  went  away,  Sidney 
took  chairs  out  there  and  sat  with  her  mother  until 
Cue  dew  drove  Anna  to  the  lamp  in  the  sewing-room 
and  her  "Daily  Thoughts"  reading. 

Sidney  sat  alone  and  viewed  her  world  trom  trns 
new  and  pleasant  angle.  She  could  see  the  garden 
and  the  whitewashed  fence  with  its  morning-glories, 
and  at  the  same  time,  by  turning  her  head,  view  the 
Wilson  house  across  the  Street.  She  looked  mostly 
at  the  Wilson  house. 

K.  Le  Moyne  was  upstairs  in  his  room.  She  could 
hear  him  tramping  up  and  down,  and  catch,  occa- 
sionally, the  bitter-sweet  odor  of  his  old  brier 
pipe. 

All  the  small  loose  ends  of  her  life  were  gathered 
up  —  except  Joe.  She  would  have  liked  to  get  that 
clear,  too.  She  wanted  him  to  know  how  she  felt 
about  it  all :  that  she  liked  him  as  much  as  ever,  that 
she  did  not  want  to  hurt  him.  But  she  wanted  to 

94 


taake  it  clear,  too,  that  she  knew  now  that  sne 
would  never  marry  him.  bhe  thought  she  would 
never  marry;  but,  if  she  did,  it  would  be  a  man 
doing  a  man's  work  m  the  world.  Her  eyes  turned 
wistfully  to  the  house  across  the  Street. 

K.'s  lamp  still  burned  overhead,  but  his  restless 
tramping  about  had  ceased.  He  must  be  reading  — 
he  read  a  great  deal.  She  really  ought  to  go  to  bed. 
A  neighborhood  cat  came  stealthily  across  the 
Street,  and  stared  up  at  the  Httle  balcony  with 
green-glowing  eyes. 

"Come  on,  Bill  Taft,"  she  said.  "Reginald  is 
gone,  so  you  are  welcome.  Come  on." 

Joe  Drummond,  passing  the  house  for  the  fourth 
time  that  evening,  heard  her  voice,  and  hesitated 
incertainly  on  the  pavement. 

"That  you,  Sid?"  he  called  softly. 

"Joe!  Come  in." 

"It's  late;  I'd  better  get  home." 

The  misery  in  his  voice  hurt  her. 

"  I  '11  not  keep  you  long.   I  want  to  talk  to  you.** 

He  came  slowly  toward  her. 

"Well?  "he  said  hoarsely. 

"You're  not  very  kind  to  me,  Joe." 

"  My  God ! "  said  poor  Joe.  "  Kind  to  you !  Is  n't 
the  kindest  thing  I  can  do  to  keep  out  of  your 
way?" 

"Not  if  you  are  hating  me  all  the  time." 

"I  don't  hate  you." 

"Then  why  haven't  you  been  to  see  me?    If  I 


K 


feave  done  anything — "    Her  voice  was  a- tingle 
with  virtue  and  outraged  friendship. 

*'  You  have  n't  done  anything  but  —  show  me 
where  I  get  off." 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  balcony  and  stared 
out  blankly. 

"If  that's  the  way  you  feel  about  it  — " 

"I'm  not  blaming  you.  I  was  a  fool  to  think 
you  'd  ever  care  about  me.  I  don't  know  that  I  feel 
so  bad  —  about  the  thing.  I  Ve  been  around  seeing 
some  other  girls,  and  I  notice  they  're  glad  to  see  me, 
and  treat  me  right,  too."  There  was  boyish  bravado 
in  his  voice.  "But  what  makes  me  sick  is  to  have 
every  one  saying  you've  jilted  me." 

"Good  gracious!  Why,  Joe,  I  never  promised." 

"VvVil,  v/e  look  at  it  in  different  ways;  that's  all. 
'  took  it  for  a  promise." 

Then  suddenly  all  his  carefully  conserved  indiffer- 
ence fled.  He  bent  forward  quickly  and,  catching 
her  hand,  held  it  against  his  lips. 

"  I  'm  crazy  about  you,  Sidney.  That's  the  truth 
t  wish  I  could  die!" 

The  cat,  finding  no  active  antagonism,  sprang  up 
on  the  balcony  and  rubbed  against  the  boy's  quiver- 
ing shoulders;  a  breath  of  air  stroked  the  morning- 
glory  vine  like  the  touch  of  a  friendly  hand.  Sidney, 
facing  for  the  first  time  the  enigma  of  love  and  de- 
spair sat,  rather  frightened,  in  her  chair. 

"You  don't  mean  that!" 

"I  mean  it,  all  right.    If  it  was  n't  for  the  folks, 

06 


u'd  jump  in  the  river.  I  lied  when  I  said  I'd  been 
to  see  other  girls.  What  do  1  want  with  other  girls? 
I  want  you!" 

"I'm  not  worth  all  that." 

"  No  girl 's  worth  what  I  've  been  going  through," 
he  retorted  bitterly.  "But  that  doesn't  help  any. 
I  don't  eat;  I  don't  sleep  —  I  'm  afraid  sometimes  of 
the  way  I  feel.  When  I  saw  you  at  the  White  Springs 
with  that  roomer  chap  - 

"Ah!  You  were  there!" 

"If  I'd  had  a  gun  I'd  have  killed  him.  I 
thought  —  " 

So  far,  out  of  sheer  pity,  she  had  left  her  hand  in 
his.  Now  she  drew  it  away. 

"This  is  wild,  silly  talk.  You'll  be  sorry  to-mor- 
row." 

"It's  the  truth,"  doggedly. 

But  he  made  a  clutch  at  his  self-respect.  He  was 
acting  like  a  crazy  boy,  and  he  was  a  man,  all  of 
twenty- two ! 

"When  are  you  going  to  the  hospital?" 

"To-morrow." 

"  Is  that  Wilson's  hospital?" 

"Yes." 

Alas  for  his  resolve !  The  red  haze  of  jealousy  came 
again.  "You  '11  be  seeing  him  every  day,  I  suppose." 

"I  dare  say.  I  shall  also  be  seeing  twenty  or 
thirty  other  doctors,  and  a  hundred  or  so  men  pa- 
tients, not  to  mention  visitors.  Joe,  you're  not 
rational." 

97 


"No,"  he  said  heavily,  "I'm  not.  If  it's  got  tc 
be  some  one,  Sidney,  I  'd  rather  have  it  the  roomer 
upstairs  than  Wilson.  There's  a  lot  of  talk  about 
Wilson." 

"It  is  n't  necessary  to  malign  my  friends." 

He  rose. 

"I  thought  perhaps,  since  you  are  going  away, 
you  would  let  me  keep  Reginald.  He'd  be  some- 
thing to  remember  you  by." 

"One  would  think  I  was  about  to  die!  I  set  Regi- 
nald free  that  day  in  the  country.  I'm  sorry,  Joe. 
You'll  come  to  see  me  now  and  then,  won't  you?" 

"If  I  do,  do  you  think  you  may  change  your 
mind?" 

"I'm  afraid  not." 

"I've  got  to  fight  this  out  alone,  and  the  less  I 
see  of  you  the  better."  But  his  next  words  belied 
his  intention.  "And  Wilson  had  better  look  out.  I  '11 
be  watching.  If  I  see  him  playing  any  of  his  tricks 
around  you  —  well,  he'd  better  look  out!" 

That,  as  it  turned  out,  was  Joe's  farewell.  He  had 
reached  the  breaking-point.  He  gave  her  a  long 
look,  blinked,  and  walked  rapidly  out  to  the  Street, 
Some  of  the  dignity  of  his  retreat  was  lost  by  the 
fact  that  the  cat  followed  him,  close  at  his  heels. 

Sidney  was  hurt,  greatly  troubled.  If  this  was 
love,  she  did  not  want  it  —  this  strange  compound 
of  suspicion  and  despair,  injured  pride  and  threats. 
Lovers  in  fiction  were  of  two  classes  —  the  accepted 
ones,  who  loved  and  trusted,  and  the  rejected  ones, 

08 


K 


who  took  themselves  away  in  despair,  but  at  least 
took  themselves  away.  The  thought  of  a  future 
with  Joe  always  around  a  corner,  watching  her, 
obsessed  her.  She  felt  aggrieved,  insulted.  She  even 
shed  a  tear  or  two,  very  surreptitiously;  and  then, 
being  human  and  much  upset,  and  the  cat  startling 
her  by  its  sudden  return  and  selfish  advances,  she 
shooed  it  off  the  veranda  and  set  an  imaginary  dog 
after  it.  Whereupon,  feeling  somewhat  better,  she 
went  in  and  locked  the  balcony  window  and  pro- 
ceeded upstairs. 

Le  Moyne's  light  was  still  going.  The  rest  of  the 
household  slept.  She  paused  outside  the  door. 

"Are  you  sleepy?"  —  very  softly. 

There  was  a  movement  inside,  the  sound  of  a  book 
put  down.  Then:  "No,  indeed." 

"  I  may  not  see  you  in  the  morning.  I  leave  to- 
morrow." 

"Just  a  minute." 

From  the  sounds,  she  judged  that  he  was  putting 
on  his  shabby  gray  coat.  The  next  moment  he 
'had  opened  the  door  and  stepped  out  into  the  cor- 
ridor. 

"  I  believe  you  had  forgotten!" 

"I?  Certainly  not.  T  started  downstairs  a  while 
ago,  but  you  had  a  visitor." 

"Only  Joe  Drummond." 

He  gazed  down  at  her  quizzically. 

"And  —  is  Joe  more  reasonable?" 

99 


"  He  will  be.  He  knows  now  that  I  —  that  I  shall 
not  marry  him." 

"  Poor  chap!  He'll  buck  up,  of  course.  But  it's  a 
little  hard  just  now." 

"  I  believe  you  think  I  should  have  married  him." 

"I  am  only  putting  myself  in  his  place  and  real- 
izing —  When  do  you  leave?" 

"Just  after  breakfast." 

"  I  am  going  very  early.   Perhaps  —  " 

He  hesitated.  Then,  hurriedly:  — 

"I  got  a  little  present  for  you  —  nothing  much, 
but  your  mother  was  quite  willing.  In  fact,  we 
bought  it  together." 

He  went  back  into  his  room,  and  returned  with  a 
small  box. 

"With  all  sorts  of  good  luck,"  he  said,  and  placed 
it  in  her  hands. 

"How  dear  of  you!  And  may  I  look  now?" 

"  I  wish  you  would.  Because,  if  you  would  rather 
have  something  else  —  " 

She  opened  the  box  with  excited  fingers.  Ticking 
ravay  on  its  satin  bed  was  a  small  gold  watch. 

"You'll  need  it,  you  see,"  he  explained  nerv- 
ously. "It  wasn't  extravagant  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. Your  mother's  watch,  which  you  had 
intended  to  take,  had  no  second-hand.  You'll  need 
a  second-1  and  to  take  pulses,  you  know." 

"A  watch,"  said  Sidney,  eyes  on  it.  "A  dear 
little  watch,  to  pin  on  and  not  put  in  a  pocket 
Why;  you're  the  best  person!" 

IOO 


"I  was  afraid  you  might  think  it  presumptuous,** 
he  said.  "  I  have  n't  any  right,  of  course.  I  thought 
of  flowers  —  but  they  fade  and  what  have  you? 
You  said  that,  you  know,  about  Joe's  roses.  And 
then,  your  mother  said  you  would  n't  be  of- 
fended — '' 

"Don't  apologize  for  making  me  so  happy !"  sht 
cried.  "It's  wonderful,  really.  And  the  little  hand 
is  for  pulses!  How  many  queer  things  you  know!" 

After  that  she  must  pin  it  on,  and  slip  in  to  stand 
before  his  mirror  and  inspect  the  result.  It  gave 
Le  Moyne  a  queer  thrill  to  see  her  there  in  the  room, 
among  his  books  and  his  pipes.  It  made  him  a  little 
sick,  too,  in  view  of  to-morrow  and  the  thousand- 
odd  to-morrows  when  she  would  not  be  there. 

"•I've  kept  you  up  shamefully,"  she  said  at  last, 
"and  you  get  up  so  early.  I  shall  write  you  a  note 
from  the  hospital,  delivering  a  little  lecture  on  ex- 
travagance —  because  how  can  I  now,  with  this 
joy  shining  on  me?  And  about  how  to  keep  Katie 
in  order  about  your  socks,  and  all  sorts  of  things. 
And  —  and  now,  good-night." 

She  had  moved  to  the  door,  and  he  followed  her, 
stooping  a  little  to  pass  under  the  low  chandelier. 

"Good-night,"  said  Sidney. 

"Good-bye  —  and  God  bless  you." 

She  went  out,  and  he  closed  the  door  softly  be- 
hind her. 


CHAPTER  IX 

SIDNEY  never  forgot  her  early  impressions  of  the 
hospital,  although  they  were  chaotic  enough  at  first. 
There  were  uniformed  young  women  coming  and 
going,  efficient,  cool-eyed,  low  of  voice.  There  were 
medicine-closets  with  orderly  rows  of  labeled  bottles, 
linen-rooms  with  great  stacks  of  sheets  and  towels, 
long  vistas  of  shining  floors  and  lines  of  beds.  There 
were  brisk  internes  with  duck  clothes  and  brass 
buttons,  who  eyed  her  with  friendly,  patronizing 
glances.  There  were  bandages  and  dressings,  and 
great  white  screens  behind  which  were  played  little 
or  big  dramas,  baths  or  deaths,  as  the  case  might  be. 
And  over  all  brooded  the  mysterious  authority  of 
the  superintendent  of  the  training-school,  dubbed 
the  Head,  for  short. 

Twelve  hours  a  day,  from  seven  to  seven,  with 
the  off-duty  intermission,  Sidney  labored  at  tasks 
which  revolted  her  soul.  She  swept  and  dusted  the 
wards*,  cleaned  closets,  folded  sheets  and  towels, 
rolled  bandages  —  did  everything  but  nurse  the 
sick,  which  was  what  she  had  come  to  do. 

At  night  she  did  not  go  home.  She  sat  on  the  edge 
of  her  narrow  white  bed  and  soaked  her  aching  feet 
in  hot  water  and  witch  hazel,  and  practiced  taking 
pulses  on  her  own  slender  wrist,  with  K.'s  little 
watch. 

102 


Out  of  all  the  long,  hot  days,  two  periods  stood 
out  clearly,  to  be  waited  for  and  cherished.  One 
was  when,  early  in  the  afternoon,  with  the  ward  in 
spotless  order,  the  shades  drawn  against  the  August 
sun,  the  tables  covered  with  their  red  covers,  and 
the  only  sound  the  drone  of  the  bandage-machine 
as  Sidney  steadily  turned  it,  Dr.  Max  passed  the 
door  on  his  way  to  the  surgical  ward  beyond,  and 
gave  her  a  cheery  greeting.  At  these  times  Sidney's 
heart  beat  almost  in  time  with  the  ticking  of  the 
little  watch. 

The  other  hour  was  at  twilight,  when,  work  over 
for  the  day,  the  night  nurse,  with  her  rubber-soled 
shoes  and  tired  eyes  and  jangling  keys,  having  re- 
ported and  received  the  night  orders,  the  nurses 
gathered  in  their  small  parlor  for  prayers.  It  was 
months  before  Sidney  got  over  the  exaltation  of 
that  twilight  hour,  and  never  did  it  cease  to  bring 
her  healing  and  peace.  In  a  way,  it  crystallized  foi 
her  what  the  day's  work  meant:  charity  and  its 
sister,  service,  the  promise  of  rest  and  peace.  Into 
the  little  parlor  filed  the  nurses,  and  knelt,  folding 
their  tired  hands. 

"The  Lord  is  my  shepherd,"  read  the  Head  out 
of  her  worn  Bible;  "I  shall  not  want." 

And  the  nurses:  "  He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in 
green  pastures:  he  leadeth  me  beside  the  still  waters." 

And  so  on  through  the  psalm  to  the  assurance 
at  the  end,  "And  I  will  dwell  in  the  house  of  the 
Lord  for  ever." 

103 


K 


Now  and  then  there  was  a  death  behind  one  ol 
the  white  screens.  It  caused  little  change  in  the 
routine  of  the  ward.  A  nurse  stayed  behind  the 
screen,  and  her  work  was  done  by  the  others.  When 
everything  was  over,  the  time  was  recorded  exactly 
on  the  record,  and  the  body  was  taken  away. 

At  first  it  seemed  to  Sidney  that  she  could  not 
stand  this  nearness  to  death.  She  thought  the 
nurses  hard  because  they  took  it  quietly.  Then  she 
found  that  it  was  only  stoicism,  resignation,  that 
they  had  learned.  These  things  must  be,  and  the 
work  must  go  on.  Their  philosophy  made  them  no 
less  tender.  Some  such  patient  detachment  must 
be  that  of  the  angels  who  keep  the  Great  Record. 

On  her  first  Sunday  half-holiday  she  was  free  in 
the  morning,  and  went  to  church  with  her  mother, 
going  back  to  the  hospital  after  the  service.  So  it 
was  two  weeks  before  she  saw  Le  Moyne  again 
Even  then,  it  was  only  for  a  short  time,  Christine 
and  Palmer  Howe  came  in  to  see  her,  and  to  inspect 
the  balcony,  now  finished. 

But  Sidney  and  Le  Moyne  had  a  few  words  to- 
gether first. 

There  was  a  change  in  Sidney.  Le  Moyne  was 
quick  to  see  it.  She  was  a  trifle  subdued,  with  a  puz- 
zled look  in  her  blue  eyes.  Her  mouth  was  tender, 
as  always,  but  he  thought  it  drooped.  There  was  a 
new  atmosphere  of  wistfulriess  about  the  girl  that 
made  his  heart  ache. 

104 


They  were  alone  in  the  little  parlor  with  its  brown 
iamp  and  blue  silk  shade,  and  its  small  nude  Eve — 
which  Anna  kept  because  it  had  been  a  gift  from 
her  husband,  but  retired  behind  a  photograph  of 
the  minister,  so  that  only  the  head  arid  a  bare  arm 
holding  the  apple  appeared  above  the  reverend  gen- 
tleman. 

K.  never  smoked  in  the  parlor,  but  by  sheer  fo^ce 
of  habit  he  held  the  pipe  in  his  teeth. 

"And  how  have  things  been  going?"  asked  Sid- 
ney practically. 

"Your  steward  has  little  to  report.  Aunt  Har- 
riet, who  left  you  her  love,  has  had  the  complete 
order  for  the  Lorenz  trousseau.  She  and  I  have 
picked  out  a  stunning  design  for  the  wedding  dress.  2 
thought  I  'd  ask  you  about  the  veil.  We're  rather  in 
a  quandary.  Do  you  like  this  new  fashion  of  draping 
the  veil  from  behind  the  coiffure  in  the  back  — " 

Sidney  had  been  sitting  on  the  edge  of  her  chair, 
staring. 

"There,"  she  said  —  "I  knew  it!  This  house  is 
fatal!  They're  making  an  old  woman  of  you  al- 
'-eady."  Her  tone  was  tragic. 

"Miss  Lorenz  likes  the  new  method,  but  my 
personal  preference  is  for  the  old  way,  with  the 
bride's  face  covered." 

He  sucked  calmly  at  his  dead  pipe. 

"Katie  has  a  new  prescription  —  recipe  —  for 
bread.  It  has  more  bread  and  fewer  air-holes.  One 
cake  of  yeast  — •" 

JOS 


Sidney  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"It's  perfectly  terrible!"  she  cried.  "Because 
you  rent  a  room  in  this  house  is  no  reason  why 
you  should  give  up  your  personality  and  youi 
—  your  intelligence.  Not  but  that  it's  good  foi 
you.  But  Katie  has  made  bread  without  masculine 
assistance  for  a  good  many  years,  and  if  Christine 
can't  decide  about  her  own  veil  she'd  better  not 
get  married.  Mother  says  you  water  the  flowers 
every  evening,  and  lock  up  the  house  before  you 
go  to  bed.  I  —  I  never  meant  you  to  adopt  the 
family!" 

K.  removed  his  pipe  and  gazed  earnestly  into  the 
bowl. 

"Bill  Taft  has  had  kittens  under  the  porch,"  he 
said.  "And  the  grocery  man  has  been  sending  short 
weight.  We  've  bought  scales  now,  and  weigh  every- 
thing." 

"You  are  evading  the  question." 

"Dear  child,  I  am  doing  these  things  because  1 
like  to  do  them.  For  —  for  some  time  I  've  been 
floating,  and  now  I  Ve  got  a  home.  Every  time  I 
loch  up  the  windows  at  night,  or  cut  a  picture  out 
of  a  magazine  as  a  suggestion  to  your  Aunt  Harriet 
it's  an  anchor  to  windward." 

Sidney  gazed  helplessly  at  his  imperturbable  face, 
tie  seemed  older  than  she  had  recalled  him:  the 
nair  over  his  ears  was  almost  white.  And  yet,  he 
was  just  thirty.  That  was  Palmer  Howe's  age,  and 
?<almer  seemed  like  a  boy.  But  he  held  himself  more 

106 


erect  than  he  had  in  the  first  days  of  his  occupancy 
of  the  second-floor  front. 

"And  now,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "what  about 
yourself?  You've  lost  a  lot  of  illusions,  of  course, 
but  perhaps  you've  gained  ideals.  That's  a  step." 

"Life,"  observed  Sidney,  with  the  wisdom  of 
two  weeks  out  in  the  world,  "life  is  a  terrible 
thing,  K.  We  think  we've  got  it,  and  —  it's  got 
us." 

"Undoubtedly." 

"When  I  think  of  how  simple  I  used  to  think  it 
all  was!  One  grew  up  and  got  married,  and  —  and 
perhaps  had  children.  And  when  one  got  very  old, 
one  died.  Lately,  I  've  been  seeing  that  life  really 
consists  of  exceptions  —  children  who  don't  grow 
•ip,  and  grown-ups  who  die  before  they  are  old. 
And"  —  this  took  an  effort,  but  she  looked  at  him 
squarely  —  "and  people  who  have  children,  but 
are  not  married.  It  all  rather  hurts." 

"All  knowledge  that  is  worth  while  hurts  ;n  the 
getting." 

Sidney  got  up  and  wandered  around  the  room, 
touching  its  little  familiar  objects  with  tender  hands. 
K.  watched  her.  There  was  this  curious  element  in 
his  love  for  her,  that  when  he  was  with  her  it  took 
on  the  guise  of  friendship  and  deceived  even  himself. 
It  was  only  in  the  lonely  hours  that  it  took  on  truth, 
became  a  hopeless  yearning  for  the  touch  of  her 
hand  or  a  glance  from  her  clear  eyes. 

Sidney,  having  picked  up  the  minister's  picture, 

JO7 


_eplaced  it  absently,  so  that  Eve  stood  revealed  in 
all  her  pre-apple  innocence. 

"There  is  something  else,"  she  said  absently.  "  I 
cannot  talk  it  over  with  mother.  There  is  a  girl  in 
the  ward  — " 

"A  patient?" 

"Yes.  She  is  quite  pretty.  She  has  had  typhoid, 
but  she  is  a  little  better.  She ' s — not  a  good  person . ' ' 

"I  see." 

"At  first  I  could  n't  bear  to  go  near  her.  I  shivered 
when  I  had  to  straighten  her  bed.  I  —  I  'm  being 
very  frank,  but  I  Ve  got  to  talk  this  out  with  some 
one.  I  worried  a  lot  about  it,  because,  although  at 
first  I  hated  her,  now  I  don't.  I  rather  like  her." 

She  looked  at  K.  defiantly,  but  there  was  no  dis- 
approval in  his  eyes. 

"Yes." 

"Well,  this  is  the  question.  She's  getting  better. 
She  '11  be  able  to  go  out  soon.  Don't  you  think  some- 
thing ought  to  be  done  to  keep  her  from  —  going 
back?" 

There  was  a  shadow  in  K.'s  eyes  now.  She  was 
so  young  to  face  all  this;  and  yet,  since  face  it  she 
must,  how  much  better  to  have  her  do  it  squarely. 

"Does  she  want  to  change  her  mode  of  life?" 

"  I  don't  know,  of  course.  There  are  some  things 
one  does  n't  discuss.  She  cares  a  great  deal  for  some 
man.  The  other  day  I  propped  her  up  in  bed  and 
gave  her  a  newspaper,  and  after  a  while  I  found  the 
paper  ,on  the  floor,  and  she  was  crying.  The  other 

108 


patients  avoid  her,  and  it  was  some  time  before  I 
noticed  it.  The  next  day  she  told  me  that  the  man 
was  going  to  marry  some  one  else.  '  He  would  n't 
marry  me,  of  course,'  she  said;  'but  he  might  have 
told  me.'" 

Le  Moyne  did  his  best,  that  afternoon  in  the  little  ' 
parlor,  to  provide  Sidney  with  a  philosophy  to  carry 
her  through  her  training.  He  told  her  that  certain 
responsibilities  were  hers,  but  that  she  could  not 
reform  the  world.  Broad  charity,  tenderness,  and 
healing  were  her  province. 

"Help  them  all  you  can,"  he  finished,  feeling  in- 
adequate and  hopelessly  didactic.  "Cure  them; 
send  them  out  with  a  smile ;  and  —  leave  the  rest  to 
the  Almighty." 

Sidney  was  resigned,  but  not  content.  Newly 
facing  the  evil  of  the  world,  she  was  a  rampant  re- 
former at  once.  Only  the  arrival  of  Christine  and 
her  fiance  saved  his  philosophy  from  complete  rout. 
He  had  time  for  a  question  between  the  ring  of  the 
bell  and  Katie's  deliberate  progress  from  the  kitchen 
to  the  front  door. 

"How  about  the  surgeon,  young  Wilson?  Do  you 
ever  see  him?"  His  tone  was  carefully  casual. 

"Almost  every  day.  He  stops  at  the  door  of  th* 
ward  and  speaks  to  me.  It  makes  me  quite  distin- 
guished, for  a  probationer.  Usually,  you  know,  the 
staff  never  even  see  the  probationers." 

"And  —  the  glamour  persists?"  He  smiled  down 
at  her. 

109 


"I  think  he  is  very  wonderful,"  said  Sidney 
valiantly. 

Christine  Lorenz,  while  not  large,  seemed  to  fill 
the  little  room.  Her  voice,  which  was  frequent  and 
penetrating,  her  smile,  which  was  wide  and  showed 
very  white  teeth  that  were  a  trifle  large  for  beauty, 
her  all-embracing  good  nature,  dominated  the  entire 
lower  floor.  K.,  who  had  met  her  before,  retired  into 
silence  and  a  corner.  Young  Howe  smoked  a  cigar- 
ette in  the  hall. 

"You  poor  thing!"  said  Christine,  and  put  her 
cheek  against  Sidney's.  "Why,  you're  positively 
thin !  Palmer  gives  you  a  month  to  tire  of  it  all ;  but 
I  said— " 

"I  take  that  back,"  Palmer  spoke  indolently 
from  the  corridor.  "There  is  the  look  of  willing 
martyrdom  in  her  face.  Where  is  Reginald?  I've 
brought  some  nuts  for  him." 

"Reginald  is  back  in  the  woods  again." 

"Now,  look  here,"  he  said  solemnly.  "When  we 
arranged  about  these  rooms,  there  ;vere  certain 
properties  that  went  with  them  —  the  lady  next 
door  who  plays  Paderewski's  'Minuet'  six  hours  a 
day,  and  K.  here,  and  Reginald.  If  you  must  take 
something  to  the  woods,  why  not  the  minuet  per- 
son?" 

Howe  was  a  good-looking  man,  thin,  smooth- 
shaven,  aggressively  well  dressed.  This  Sunday 
afternoon,  in  a  cutaway  coat  and  high  hat,  with  an 
English  malacca  stick,  he  was  just  a  little  out  of 

no 


the  picture.  The  Street  said  that  he  was  *'  wild," 
and  that  to  get  into  the  Country  Club  set  Christine 
was  losing  more  than  she  was  gaining. 

Christine  had  stepped  out  on  the  balcony,  and 
was  speaking  to  K.  just  inside. 

"It's  rather  a  queer  way  to  live,  of  course,"  she 
said.  "But  Palmer  is  a  pauper,  practically.  We 
are  going  to  take  our  meals  at  home  for  a  while. 
You  see,  certain  things  that  we  want  we  can't  have 
if  we  take  a  house  —  a  car,  for  instance.  We  '11  need 
one  for  running  out  to  the  Country  Club  to  dinner. 
Of  course,  unless  father  gives  me  one  for  a  wedding 
present,  it  will  be  a  cheap  one.  And  we're  getting 
the  Rosenfeld  boy  to  drive  it.  He's  crazy  about 
machinery,  and  he'll  come  for  practically  nothing." 

K.  had  never  known  a  married  couple  to  take  two 
rooms  and  go  to  the  bride's  mother's  for  meals  in 
order  to  keep  a  car.  He  looked  faintly  dazed.  Also, 
certain  sophistries  of  his  former  world  about  a  cheap 
chauffeur  being  costly  in  the  end  rose  in  his  mind 
and  were  carefully  suppressed. 

"You'll  find  a  car  a  great  comfort,  I'm  sure," 
he  said  politely. 

Christine  considered  K.  rather  distinguished.  She 
liked  his  graying  hair  and  steady  eyes,  and  insisted 
on  considering  his  shabbiness  a  pose.  She  was  con- 
scious that  she  made  a  pretty  picture  in  the  French 
window,  and  preened  herself  like  a  bright  bird. 

"You '11  come  out  with  us  now  and  then,  I  hope  "' 

"Thank  you." 

in 


"Isn't  it  odd  to  think  that  we  are  going  to  be 
practically  one  family!" 

"Odd,  but  very  pleasant." 

He  caught  the  flash  of  Christine's  smile,  and 
smiled  back.  Christine  was  glad  she  had  decided  to 
take  the  rooms,  glad  that  K.  lived  there.  This  thing 
of  marriage  being  the  end  of  all  things  was  absurd. 
A  married  woman  should  have  men  friends;  they 
kept  her  up.  She  would  take  him  to  the  Country 
Club.  The  women  would  be  mad  to  know  him.  How 
clear-cut  his  profile  was! 

Across  the  Street,  the  Rosenfeld  boy  had  stopped 
by  Dr.  Wilson's  car,  and  was  eyeing  it  with  the 
cool,  appraising  glance  of  the  street  boy  whose  sole 
knowledge  of  machinery  has  been  acquired  from 
the  clothes-washer  at  home.  Joe  Drummond,  eyes 
carefully  ahead,  went  up  the  Street.  Tillie,  at  Mrs. 
McKee's,  stood  in  the  doorway  and  fanned  herself 
with  her  apron.  Max  Wilson  came  out  of  the  house 
and  got  into  his  car.  For  a  minute,  perhaps,  all  the 
actors,  save  Carlotta  and  Dr.  Ed,  were  on  the  stage. 
It  was  that  bete  noir  of  the  playwright,  an  ensemble  ; 
K.  Le  Moyne  and  Sidney,  Palmer  Howe,  Christine, 
Tillie,  the  younger  Wilson,  Joe,  even  young  Rosen- 
feld, all  within  speaking  distance,  almost  touching 
distance,  gathered  within  and  about  the  little  house 
on  a  side  street  which  K.  at  first  grimly  and  now  teri° 
derly  called  "home." 


CHAPTER  X 

ON  Monday  morning,  shortly  after  the  McKee  pro- 
longed breakfast  hour  was  over,  a  small  man  of  per- 
haps fifty,  with  iron-gray  hair  and  a  sparse  goatee, 
made  his  way  along  the  Street.  He  moved  with  the 
air  of  one  having  a  definite  destination  but  a  by  no 
means  definite  reception. 

As  he  walked  along  he  eyed  with  a  professional 
glance  the  ailanthus  and  maple  trees  which,  with 
an  occasional  poplar,  lined  the  Street.  At  the  door 
of  Mrs.  McKee's  boarding-house  he  stopped.  Owing 
to  a  slight  change  in  the  grade  of  the  street,  the 
McKee  house  had  no  stoop,  but  one  flat  doorstep. 
Thus  it  was  possible  to  ring  the  doorbell  from  the 
pavement,  and  this  the  stranger  did.  It  gave  him  a 
curious  appearance  of  being  ready  to  cut  and  run 
if  things  were  unfavorable. 

For  a  moment  things  were  indeed  unfavorable. 
Mrs.  McKee  herself  opened  the  door.  She  recog^ 
nized  him  at  once,  but  no  smile  met  the  nervou?  one 
that  formed  itself  on  the  stranger's  face. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?" 

"It's  me,  Mrs.  McKee." 

"Well?" 

He  made  a  conciliatory  effort. 

"I  was  thinking,  as  I  came  along,"  he  said,  "thai 


K 


you  and  the  neighbors  had  better  get  after  these 
here  caterpillars.  Look  at  them  maples,  now." 

"If  you  want  to  see  Tillie,  she's  busy." 

"  I  only  want  to  say  how-d  'ye-do.  I  *m  just  on  my 
way  through  town." 

"I'll  say  it  for  you." 

A  certain  doggedness  took  the  place  of  his  tenta- 
tive smile. 

"  I  '11  say  it  myself,  I  guess.  I  don't  want  any  un- 
pleasantness, but  I  've  come  a  good  ways  to  see  her 
and  I'll  hang  around  until  I  do.'' 

Mrs.  McKee  knew  herself  routed,  and  retreated 
to  the  kitchen. 

"You're  wanted  out  front,"  she  said. 

•'Who  is  it?" 

"Never  mind.  Only,  my  advice  to  you  is,  don't 
be  a  fool." 

Tillie  went  suddenly  pale.  The  hands  with  which 
she  tied  a  white  apron  over  her  gingham  one  wer^ 
shaking. 

Her  visitor  had  accepted  the  open  door  as  per- 
mission  to  enter  and  was  standing  in  the  hall. 

He  went  rather  white  himself  when  he  saw  Tillie 
coming  toward  him  down  the  hall.  He  knew  that  for 
Tillie  this  visit  would  mean  that  he  was  free  —  and 
he  was  not  free.  Sheer  terror  of  his  errand  filled  him. 

"Well,  here  I  am,  Tillie." 

"All  dressed  up  and  highly  perfumed!"  said  poor 
Tillie,  with  the  question  in  her  eyes.  "You're  quite 
a  stranger,  Mr.  Schwitter." 


"I  was  passing  through,  and  I  just  thought  I'd 
call  around  and  tell  you  —  My  God,  Tillie,  I  'm 
glad  to  see  you!" 

She  made  no  reply,  but  opened  the  door  into  the 
cool  and  shaded  little  parlor.  He  followed  her  in 
and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

"I  could  n't  help  it.    I  know  I  promised." 

"Then  she—?" 

"She's  still  living.  Playing  with  paper  dolls  — 
that's  the  latest." 

Tillie  sat  down  suddenly  on  one  of  the  stiff  chairs, 
Her  lips  were  as  white  as  her  face. 

"I  thought,  when  I  saw  you  — " 

"I  was  afraid  you'd  think  that." 

Neither  spoke  for  a  moment.  Tillie's  hands 
twisted  nervously  in  her  lap.  Mr.  Schwitter's  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  window,  which  looked  back  on  the 
McKee  yard. 

"That  spiraea  back  there's  not  looking  very 
good.  If  you'll  save  the  cigar  butts  around  here 
and  put  'em  in  water,  and  spray  it,  you  '11  kill  the 
lice." 

Tillie  found  speech  at  last. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  come  around  bothering 
me,"  she  said  dully.  "I've  been  getting  along  all 
right;  now  you  come  and  upset  everything." 

Mr.  Schwitter  rose  and  took  a  step  toward  her. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  why  I  came.  Look  at  me.  I 
ain't  getting  any  younger,  am  I?  Time's  going 
on,  and  I'm  wanting  you  al)  the  time.  And  whaf 

H5 


am  I  getting?  What've  I  got  out  of  life,  anyhow? 
I'm  lonely,  Tillie!" 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  me?" 

"You're  lonely,  too,  ain't  you?" 

"Me?  I  have  n't  got  time  to  be.  And,  anyhow, 
there's  always  a  crowd  here." 

"You  can  be  lonely  in  a  crowd,  and  I  guess  — 
is  there  any  one  around  here  you  like  better  than 
me?" 

"Oh,  what's  the  use!"  cried  poor  Tillie.  "We 
can  talk  our  heads  off  and  not  get  anywhere.  You  Ve 
got  a  wife  living,  and,  unless  you  intend  to  do  away 
with  her,  I  guess  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"  Is  that  all,  Tillie?  Have  n't  you  got  a  right  to  be 
happy?" 

She  was  quick  of  wit,  and  she  read  his  tone  as 
well  as  his  words. 

"You  get  out  of  here  —  and  get  out  quick!" 

She  had  jumped  to  her  feet;  but  he  only  looked  at 
her  with  understanding  eyes. 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "That's  the  way  I  thought 
of  it  at  first.  Maybe  I  Ve  just  got  used  to  the  idea, 
but  it  does  n't  seem  so  bad  to  me  now.  Here  are 
you,  drudging  for  other  people  when  you  ought  to 
have  a  place  all  your  own  —  and  not  gettin'  younger 
any  more  than  I  am.  Here's  both  of  us  lonely.  I  'd 
be  a  good  husband  to  you,  Till  —  because,  what- 
ever it  'd  be  in  law,  I  'd  be  your  husband  before  God." 

Tillie  cowered  against  the  door,  her  eyes  on  his. 
Here  before  her.  embodied  in  this  man,  stood  all  that 

116 


she  had  wanted  and  never  had.  He  meant  a  home, 
tenderness,  children,  perhaps.  He  turned  away  from 
the  look  in  her  eyes  and  stared  out  of  the  front 
window. 

"Them  poplars  out  there  ought  to  be  taken  away," 
he  said  heavily.  "They're  hell  on  sewers." 

Tillie  found  her  voice  at  last:  — 

"I  couldn't  do  it,  Mr.  Sch witter.  I  guess  I'm  a 
coward.  Maybe  I'll  be  sorry." 

"  Perhaps,  if  you  got  used  to  the  idea  — 

"What's  that  to  do  with  the  right  and  wrong 
of  it?" 

"  Maybe  I  'm  queer.  It  don't  seem  like  wrongdo- 
ing to  me.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  Lord  would  make 
an  exception  of  us  if  He  knew  the  circumstances. 
Perhaps,  after  you  get  used  to  the  idea  —  What 
I  thought  was  like  this.  I  Ve  got  a  little  farm  about 
seven  miles  from  the  city  limits,  and  the  tenant  on 
it  says  that  nearly  every  Sunday  somebody  motors 
out  from  town  and  wants  a  chicken-and-waffle  sup- 
per. There  ain't  much  in  the  nursery  business  any 
more.  These  landscape  fellows  buy  their  stuff  di- 
rect, and  the  middleman 's  out.  I  Ve  got  a  good  or- 
chard, and  there's  a  spring,  so  I  could  put  running 
water  in  the  house.  I  'd  be  good  to  you,  Tillie,  — 
I  swear  it.  It'd  be  just  the  same  as  marriage.  No- 
body need  know  it." 

"You'd  know  it.   You  would  n't  respect  me." 

"Don't  a  man  respect  a  woman  that's  got  cour- 
age enough  to  give  up  everything  for  him?" 

117 


Tillie  was  crying  softly  into  her  apron.  He  put  a 
work-hardened  hand  on  her  head. 

"It  is  n't  as  if  I'd  run  around  after  women,"  he 
said.  "You're  the  only  one,  since  Maggie — "  He 
drew  a  long  breath.  "  I  '11  give  you  time  to  think  it 
over.  Suppose  I  stop  in  to-morrow  morning.  It 
does  n't  commit  you  to  anything  to  talk  it  over." 

There  had  been  no  passion  in  the  interview,  and 
there  was  none  in  the  touch  of  his  hand.  He  was  not 
young,  and  the  tragic  loneliness  of  approaching  old 
age  confronted  him.  He  was  trying  to  solve  his 
problem  and  Tillie's,  and  what  he  had  found  was  no 
solution,  but  a  compromise. 

"To-morrow  morning,  then,"  he  said  quietly,  and 
went  out  the  door. 

All  that  hot  August  morning  Tillie  worked  in  a 
daze.  Mrs.  McKee  watched  her  and  said  nothing. 
She  interpreted  the  girl's  white  face  and  set  lips  as 
the  result  of  having  had  to  dismiss  Schwitter  again, 
and  looked  for  time  to  bring  peace,  as  it  had  done 
before. 

Le  Moyne  came  late  to  his  midday  meal.  For 
once,  the  mental  anaesthesia  of  endless  figures  had 
failed  him.  On  his  way  home  he  had  drawn  his  small 
savings  from  the  bank,  and  mailed  them,  in  cash  and 
registered,  to  a  back  street  in  the  slums  of  a  distant 
city.  He  had  done  this  before,  and  always  with  a 
feeling  of  exaltation,  as  if,  for  a  time  at  least,  the 
burden  he  carried  was  lightened.  But  to-day  he  ex- 

118 


perienced  no  compensatory  relief.  Life  was  duii 
and  stale  to  him,  effort  ineffectual.  At  thirty  a  man 
should  look  back  with  tenderness,  forward  with 
hope.  K.  Le  Moyne  dared  not  look  back,  and  had 
no  desire  to  look  ahead  into  empty  years. 

Although  he  ate  little,  the  dining-room  was  empty 
when  he  finished.  Usually  he  had  some  cheerful 
banter  for  Tillie,  to  which  she  responded  in  kind. 
But,  what  with  the  heat  and  with  heaviness  of 
spirit,  he  did  not  notice  her  depression  until  he 
rose. 

"Why,  you're  not  sick,  are  you,  Tillie?" 

"Me?   Oh,  no.    Low  in  my  mind,  I  guess." 

"  Tt's  the  heat.  It's  fearful.  Look  here.  If  I  send 
you  two  tickets  to  a  roof  garden  where  there's  a 
variety  show,  can't  you  take  a  friend  and  go  to- 
night?" 

"Thanks;  I  guess  I'll  not  go  out." 

Then,  unexpectedly,  she  bent  her  head  against  a 
chair-back  and  fell  to  silent  crying.  K.  let  her  cry 
for  a  moment.  Then :  — 

"Now  —  tell  me  about  it." 

"I'm  just  worried;  that's  all." 

"Let's  see  if  we  can't  fix  up  the  worries.  Come* 
now,  out  with  them!" 

"I'm  a  wicked  woman,  Mr.  Le  Moyne." 

"Then  I'm  the  person  to  tell  it  to.  I  —  I'm 
pretty  much  of  a  lost  soul  myself." 

He  put  an  arm  over  her  shoulders  and  drew  hei 
up,  facing  him. 

119 


"Suppose  we  go  into  the  parlor  and  talk  it  out, 
I'll  bet  things  are  not  as  bad  as  you  imagine." 

But  when,  in  the  parlor  that  had  seen  Mr.  Schwit- 
ter's  strange  proposal  of  the  morning,  Tillie  poured 
out  her  story,  K.'s  face  grew  grave. 

"The  wicked  part  is  that  I  want  to  go  with  him," 
she  finished.  "  I  keep  thinking  about  being  out  in 
the  country,  and  him  coming  in  to  supper,  and 
everything  nice  for  him  and  me  cleaned  up  and  wait- 
ing —  O  my  God!  I  Ve  always  been  a  good  woman 
until  now." 

"I  —  I  understand  a  great  deal  better  than  you 
think  I  do.  You're  not  wicked.  The  only  thing 
is—" 

"Go  on.    Hit  me  with  it." 

"You  might  go  on  and  be  very  happy.  Ana  as 
for  the  —  for  his  wrife,  it  won't  do  her  any  harm. 
It's  only  —  if  there  are  children." 

"  I  know.  I  Ve  thought  of  that.  But  I  'm  so  crazy 
for  children!" 

"Exactly.  So  you  should  be.  But  when  they 
come,  and  you  cannot  give  them  a  name  —  don't 
you  see?  I'm  not  preaching  morality.  God  forbid 
that  I  —  But  no  happiness  is  built  on  a  foundation 
of  wrong.  It's  been  tried  before,  Tillie,  and  it 
does  n't  pan  out." 

He  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  failure  when  he 
left  her  at  last.  She  had  acquiesced  in  what  he  said, 
knew  he  was  right,  and  even  promised  to  talk  to 
him  again  before  making  a  decision  one  way  or 

120 


K 


the  other.  But  against  his  abstractions  of  conduct 
and  morality  there  was  pleading  in  Tillie  the 
hungry  mother-heart ;  law  and  creed  and  early  train- 
ing were  fighting  against  the  strongest  instinct  ol 
the  race.  It  was  a  losing  battle. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  hot  August  days  dragged  on.  Merciless  sunlight 
beat  in  through  the  slatted  shutters  of  ward  win- 
dows. At  night,  from  the  roof  to  which  the  nurses 
retired  after  prayers  for  a  breath  of  air,  lower  sur- 
rounding roofs  were  seen  to  be  covered  with  sleepers. 
Children  dozed  precariously  on  the  edge  of  eternity; 
men  and  women  sprawled  in  the  grotesque  postures 
of  sleep. 

There  was  a  sort  of  feverish  irritability  in  the  air. 
oven  the  nurses,  stoically  unmindful  of  bodily  dis- 
comfort, spoke  curtly  or  not  at  all.  Miss  Dana,  in 
Sidney's  ward,  went  down  with  a  low  fever,  and  for 
a  day  or  so  Sidney  and  Miss  Grange  got  along  as 
best  they  could.  Sidney  worked  like  two  or  more, 
performed  marvels  of  bed-making,  learned  to  give 
alcohol  baths  for  fever  with  the  maximum  of  re- 
sult and  the  minimum  of  time,  even  made  rounds 
with  a  member  of  the  staff  and  came  through  credit- 
ably. 

Dr.  Ed  Wilson  had  sent  a  woman  patient  into 
the  ward,  and  his  visits  were  the  breath  of  life  to  the 
girl. 

"How 're  they  treating  you?"  he  asked  her,  one 
day,  abruptly. 

"Very  well." 

11  Look  at  me  squarely.  You  're  pretty  and  you  're 
122 


K 


young.  Some  of  them  will  try  to  take  it  out  of  you. 
That's  human  nature.  Has  any  one  tried  it  yet?" 

Sidney  looked  distressed. 

"Positively,  no.  It's  been  hot,  and  of  course  it's 
troublesome  to  tell  me  everything.  I  —  I  think 
they're  all  very  kind." 

He  reached  out  a  square,  competent  hand,  and 
put  it  over  hers. 

"We  miss  you  in  the  Street,"  he  said.  "It's  alt 
sort  of  dead  there  since  you  left.  Joe  Drummond 
does  n't  moon  up  and  down  any  more,  for  one  thing. 
What  was  wrong  between  you  and  Joe,  Sidney?" 

"  I  did  n't  want  to  marry  him;  that's  all." 

"That's  considerable.  The  boy's  taking  it  hard." 

Then,  seeing  her  face:  — 

"But  you're  right,  of  course.  Don't  marry  any 
one  unless  you  can't  live  without  him.  That's  been 
my  motto,  and  here  I  am,  still  single." 

He  went  out  and  down  the  corridoi.  He  had 
known  Sidney  all  his  life.  During  the  lonely  times 
when  Max  was  at  college  and  in  Europe,  he  had 
watched  her  grow  from  a  child  to  a  young  girl.  He 
did  not  suspect  for  a  moment  that  in  that  secret 
heart  of  hers  he  sat  newly  enthroned,  in  a  glow  of 
white  light,  as  Max's  brother;  that  the  mere  thought 
that  he  lived  in  Max's  house  (it  was,  of  course, 
Max's  house  to  her),  sat  at  Max's  breakfast  table, 
could  see  him  whenever  he  wished,  made  the  touch 
of  his  hand  on  hers  a  benediction  and  a  caress. 

Sidney  finished  folding  linen  and  went  back  to  the 
123 


ward.  It  was  Friday  and  a  visiting  day.  Almost 
every  bed  had  its  visitor  beside  it;  but  Sidney,  run- 
ning an  eye  over  the  ward,  found  the  girl  of  whom 
she  had  spoken  to  Le  Moyne  quite  alone.  She  was 
propped  up  in  bed,  reading;  but  at  each  new  step  in 
the  corridor  hope  would  spring  into  her  eyes  and 
die  again. 

"Want  anything,  Grace?" 

"Me?  I'm  all  right.  If  these  people  would  only 
get  out  and  let  me  read  in  peace  —  Say,  sit  down  and 
talk  to  me,  won't  you?  It  beats  the  mischief  the 
way  your  friends  forget  you  when  you  're  laid  up  in 
a  place  like  this." 

"People  can't  always  come  at  visiting  hours. 
Besides,  it's  hot." 

"A  girl  I  knew  was  sick  here  last  year,  and  it 
was  n't  too  hot  for  me  to  trot  in  twice  a  week  with 
a  bunch  of  flowers  for  her.  Do  you  think  she 's  been 
here  once?  She  has  n't." 

Then,  suddenly:  — 

"You  know  that  man  I  told  you  about  the  other 
day?" 

Sidney  nodded.  The  girl's  anxious  eyes  were  on 
her. 

"  It  was  a  shock  to  me,  that's  all.  I  did  n't  want 
you  to  think  I'd  break  my  heart  over  any  fellow. 
All  I  meant  was,  I  wished  he'd  let  me  know." 

Her  eyes  searched  Sidney's.  They  looked  unnatu- 
rally large  and  somber  in  her  face.  Her  hair  had 
been  cut  short,  and  her  nightgown,  open  at  the 

I2J. 


n^ck,  showed  her  thin  throat  and  prominent  clav- 
icles. 

"You're  from  the  city,  are  n't  you,  Miss  Page?" 

"Yes." 

"You  told  me  the  street,  but  I've  forgotten  it.'1 

Sidney  repeated  the  name  of  the  Street,  and 
slipped  a  fresh  pillow  under  the  girl's  head. 

"The  evening  paper  says  there's  a  girl  going  to 
be  married  on  your  street." 

"Really!  Oh,  I  think  I  know.  A  friend  of  mine 
is  going  to  be  married.  Was  the  name  Lorenz?" 

"  The  girl's  name  was  Lorenz.  I  — I  don't  remem- 
ber the  man's  name." 

"She  is  going  to  marry  a  Mr.  Howe,"  said  Sidney 
briskly.  "Now,  how  do  you  feel?  More  comfy?" 

"Fine!  I  suppose  you'll  be  going  to  that  wed- 
ding?" 

"If  I  ever  get  time  to  have  a  dress  made,  I'll 
surely  go." 

Toward  six  o'clock  the  next  morning,  the  night 
nurse  was  making  out  her  reports.  On  one  record, 
which  said  at  the  top,  l:  Grace  Irving,  age  19,"  and 
an  address  which,  to  the  initiated,  told  all  her  story, 
the  night  nurse  wrote :  — 

"Did  not  sleep  at  all  during  night.  Face  set 
and  eyes  staring,  but  complains  of  no  pain.  Refused 
milk  at  eleven  and  three." 

Carlotta  Harrison,  back  from  her  vacation,  re- 
ported for  duty  the  next  morning,  and  was  assigned 
to  E  ward,  which  was  Sidney's.  She  gave  Sidney  a 

125 


curt  little  nod,  and  proceeded  to  change  the  entire 
routine  with  the  thoroughness  of  a  Central  American 
revolutionary  president.  Sidney,  who  had  yet  to 
learn  that  with  some  people  authority  can  only  as- 
sert itself  by  change,  found  herself  confused,  at  sea, 
half  resentful. 

Once  she  ventured  a  protest :  — 

" I've  been  taught  to  do  it  that  way,  Miss  Harri- 
son. If  my  method  is  wrong,  show  me  what  you 
want,  and  I'll  do  my  best." 

"I  am  not  responsible  for  what  you  have  been 
taught.  And  you  will  not  speak  back  when  you  are 
spoken  to." 

Small  as  the  incident  was,  it  marked  a  change  in 
Sidney's  position  in  the  ward.  She  got  the  worst 
off-duty  of  the  day,  or  none.  Small  humiliations 
were  hers:  late  meals,  disagreeable  duties,  endless 
and  often  unnecessary  tasks.  Even  Miss  Grange, 
now  reduced  to  second  place,  remonstrated  with 
lier  senior. 

"I  think  a  certain  amount  of  severity  is  good  for 
a  probationer,"  she  said,  "but  you  are  brutal,  Misc-i 
Harrison." 

"She's  stupid." 

"She's  not  at  all  stupid.  She's  going  to  be  one 
of  the  best  nurses  in  the  house." 

"Report  me,  then.  Tell  the  Head  I'm  abusing 
Dr.  Wilson's  pet  probationer,  that  I  don't  always 
say '  please '  when  I  ask  her  to  change  a  bed  or  take 
.a  temperature." 

126 


K 


Miss  Grange  was  not  lacking  in  keenness.  She 
did  not  go  to  the  Head,  which  is  unethical  under  any 
circumstances;  but  gradually  there  spread  through 
the  training-school  a  story  that  Carlotta  Harrison 
"vas  jealous  of  the  new  Page  girl,  Dr.  Wilson's 
protegee.  Things  were  still  highly  unpleasant  in  the 
ward,  but  they  grew  much  better  when  Sidney  was 
off  duty.  She  was  asked  to  join  .'.small  class  that 
was  studying  French  at  night.  .As  ignorant  of  the 
cause  of  her  popularity  as  of  the  reason  of  her  per- 
secution, she  went  steadily  on  her  way. 

And  she  was  gaining  every  day.  Her  mind  was 
Torming.  She  was  learning  to  think  for  herself. 
For  the  first  time,  she  was  facing  problems  and  de- 
manding an  answer.  Why  must  there  be  Grace 
Irvings  in  the  world?  Why  must  the  healthy  babies 
of  the  obstetric  ward  go  out  to  the  slums  and  come 
back,  in  months  or  years,  crippled  for  the  great  fight 
by  the  handicap  of  their  environment,  rickety, 
tuberculous,  twisted?  Why  need  the  huge  mills  feed 
the  hospitals  daily  with  injured  men? 

And  there  were  other  things  that  she  thought  of 
Every  night,  on  her  knees  in  the  nurses'  parlor  at 
prayers,  she  promised,  if  she  were  accepted  as  a 
nurse,  to  try  never  to  become  calloused,  never  to 
regard  her  patients  as  "cases,"  never  to  allow  the 
cleanliness  and  routine  of  her  ward  to  delay  a  cup 
of  water  to  the  thirsty,  or  her  arms  to  a  sick  child. 

On  the  whole,  the  world  was  good,  she  found. 
And,  of  all  the  good  things  in  it,  the  best  was  serv^ 

127 


ice.  True,  there  were  hot  days  and  restless  nights, 
weary  feet,  and  now  and  then  a  heartache.  There 
was  Miss  Harrison,  too.  But  to  offset  these  there 
was  the  sound  of  Dr.  Max's  step  in  the  corridor,  and 
his  smiling  nod  from  the  door;  there  was  a  "God 
bless  you"  now  and  then  for  the  comfort  she  gave; 
there  were  wonderful  nights  on  the  roof  under  the 
stars,  until  K.'s  little  watch  warned  her  to  bed 

While  Sidney  watched  the  stars  from  her  hospital 
roof,  while  all  around  her  the  slum  children,  on 
other  roofs,  /ought  for  the  very  breath  of  life,  others 
who  knew  and  loved  her  watched  the  stars,  too.  K. 
was  having  his  own  troubles  in  those  days.  Late  at 
night,  when  Anna  and  Harriet  had  retired,  he  sat 
on  the  balcony  and  thought  of  many  things.  Anna 
Page  was  not  well.  He  had  noticed  that  her  lips 
were  rather  blue,  and  had  called  in  Dr.  Ed.  It  was 
valvular  heart  disease.  Anna  was  not  to  be  told,  or 
Sidney.  It  was  Harriet's  ruling. 

"Sidney  can't  help  any,"  said  Harriet,  "and  for 
Heaven's  sake  let  her  have  her  chance.  Anna  may 
live  for  years.  You  know  her  as  well  as  I  do.  If  you 
tell  her  anything  at  all,  she'll  have  Sidney  here, 
waiting  on  her  hand  and  foot." 

And  Le  Moyne,  fearful  of  urging  too  much  because 
his  own  heart  was  crying  out  to  have  the  gin  back, 
assented. 

Then,  K.  was  anxious  about  Joe.  The  boy  did  not 
seem  to  get  over  the  thing  the  way  he  should.  Now 

128 


K 


and  then  Le  Moyne,  resuming  his  old  habit  of  weary 
ing  himself  into  sleep,  would  walk  out  into  the  coun- 
try. On  one  such  night  he  had  overtaken  Joe. 
tramping  along  with  his  head  down: 

Joe  had  not  wanted  his  company,  had  plainly 
sulked.  But  Le  Moyne  had  persisted. 

"I'll  not  talk,"  he  said;  "but,  since  we're  going 
the  same  way,  we  might  as  well  walk  together." 

But  after  a  time  Joe  had  talked,  after  all.  It  was 
not  much  at  first  —  a  feverish  complaint  about  the 
heat,  and  that  if  there  was  trouble  in  Mexico  he 
thought  he'd  go. 

"Wait  until  fall,  if  you're  thinking  of  it,"  K.  ad- 
vised. "This  is  tepid  compared  with  what  you  '11  get 
down  there." 

"  I  Ve  got  to  get  away  from  here." 

K.  nodded  understandingly.  Since  the  scene  at  the 
White  Springs  Hotel,  both  knew  that  no  explanation 
was  necessary. 

"It  isn't  so  much  that  I  mind  her  turning  me 
down,"  Joe  said,  after  a  silence.  "A  girl  can't  marry 
all  the  men  who  want  her.  But  I  don't  like  this  hos- 
pital idea.  I  don't  understand  it.  She  did  n't  have 
to  go.  Sometimes"  —  he  turned  bloodshot  eyes  on 
Le  Moyne  —  "I  think  she  went  because  she  was 
crazy  about  somebody  there." 

"She  went  because  she  wanted  to  be  useful." 

"She  could  be  useful  at  home." 

For  almost  twenty  minutes  they  tramped  on  with- 
out speech.  They  had  made  a  circle,  and  the  lights 

129 


K 


of  the  city  were  close  again.  K.  stopped  and  put  a 
kindly  hand  on  Joe's  shoulder. 

"  A  man 's  got  to  stand  up  under  a  thing  like  this, 
you  know.  I  mean,  it  must  n't  be  a  knockout.  Keep- 
ing busy  is  a  darned  good  method." 

Joe  shook  himself  free,  but  without  resentment. 

"I'll  tell  you  what's  eating  me  up,"  he  exploded, 
"It's  Max  Wilson.  Don't  talk  to  me  about  her  go- 
ing to  the  hospital  to  be  useful.  She's  crazy  about 
nim,  and  he's  as  crooked  as  a  dog's  hind  leg." 

"Perhaps.  But  it's  always  up  to  the  girl.  You 
know  that." 

He  felt  immeasurably  old  beside  Joe's  boyish 
blustering  —  old  and  rather  helpless. 

"I'm  watching  him.  Some  of  these  days  I'll  get 
something  on  him.  Then  she'll  know  what  to  think 
of  her  hero!" 

"That's  not  quite  square,  is  it?" 

"He's  not  square." 

Joe  had  left  him  then,  wheeling  abruptly  off  into 
the  shadows.  K.  had  gone  home  alone,  rather  un- 
easy. There  seemed  to  be  mischief  in  the  very  air. 


CHAPTER  XII 

TILLIE  was  gone. 

Oddly  enough,  the  last  person  to  see  her  before 
she  left  was  Harriet  Kennedy.  On  the  third  day 
after  Mr.  Schwitter's  visit,  Harriet's  colored  maid 
had  announced  a  visitor. 

Harriet's  business  instinct  had  been  good.  She 
had  taken  expensive  rooms  in  a  good  location,  and 
furnished  them  with  the  assistance  of  a  decorator. 
Then  she  arranged  with  a  New  York  house  to  sell  her 
models  on  commission. 

Her  short  excursion  to  New  York  had  marked  for 
Harriet  the  beginning  of  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth.  Here,  at  last,  she  found  people  speaking  her 
own  language.  She  ventured  a  suggestion  to  a  man- 
ufacturer, and  found  it  greeted,  not,  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  Street,  with  scorn,  but  with  approval  and 
some  surprise. 

"About  once  in  ten  years,"  said  Mr.  Arthurs,  "we 
have  a  woman  from  out  of  town  bring  us  a  sug- 
gestion that  is  both  novel  and  practical.  When  we 
find  people  like  that,  we  watch  them.  They  climb, 
madame,  —  climb." 

Harriet's  climbing  was  not  so  rapid  as  to  make  her 
dizzy;  but  business  was  coming.  The  first  time  she 
made  a  price  of  seventy-five  dollars  for  an  evening 


K 


pown,  she  went  out  immediately  after  and  took  a 
drink  of  water.   Her  throat  was  parched. 

She  began  to  learn  little  quips  of  the  feminine 
mind:  that  a  woman  who  can  pay  seventy-five  will 
pay  double  that  sum ;  that  it  is  not  considered  good 
form  to  show  surprise  at  a  dressmaker's  prices,  no 
matter  how  high  they  may  be;  that  long  mirrors 
and  artificial  lights  help  sales  —  no  woman  over 
thirty  but  was  grateful  for  her  pink-and-gray  room 
with  its  soft  lights.  And  Harriet  herself  conformed 
to  the  picture.  She  took  a  lesson  from  the  New 
York  modistes,  and  wore  trailing  black  gowns.  She 
strapped  her  thin  figure  into  the  best  corset  she 
could  get,  and  had  her  black  hair  marcelled  and 
dressed  high.  And,  because  she  was  a  lady  by  birth 
and  instinct,  the  result  was  not  incongruous,  but 
refined  and  rather  impressive. 

She  took  her  business  home  with  her  at  night,  lay 
awake  scheming,  and  wakened  at  dawn  to  find  fresh 
color  combinations  in  the  early  sky.  She  wakened 
early  because  she  kept  her  head  tied  up  in  a  towel, 
so  that  her  hair  need  be  done  only  three  times  a 
week.  That  and  the  corset  were  the  penalties  she 
paid.  Her  high-heeled  shoes  were  a  torment,  too* 
but  in  the  work-room  she  kicked  them  off. 

To  this  new  Harriet,  then,  came  Tillie  in  her  dis- 
tress. Tillie  was  rather  overwhelmed  at  first.  The 
Street  had  always  considered  Harriet  "  proud."  But 
Tillie's  urgency  was  great,  her  methods  direct. 

"Why,  Tillie!"  said  Harriet- 
132 


"Yes'm." 

"Will  you  sit  down?" 

Tillie  sat.  She  was  not  daunted  now.  While  she 
worked  at  the  fingers  of  her  silk  gloves,  what  Harriet 
iook  for  nervousness  was  pure  abstraction. 

"  It's  very  nice  of  you  to  come  to  see  me.  Do  you 
!ike  my  rooms?" 

Tillie  surveyed  the  rooms,  and  Harriet  caught  hei 
first  full  view  of  her  face. 

"  Is  there  anything  wrong?  Have  you  left  Mrs. 
McKee?" 

"  I  think  so.    I  came  to  talk  to  you  about  it." 

It  was  Harriet's  turn  to  be  overwhelmed. 

"She's  very  fond  of  you.  If  you  have  had  any 
words  — •" 

"  It's  not  that.  I 'm  just  leaving.  I 'd  like  to  talk 
to  you,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Certainly." 

Tillie  hitched  her  chair  closer. 

"I'm  up  against  something,  and  I  can't  seem  to 
make  up  my  mind.  Last  night  I  said  to  myself, 
'I've  got  to  talk  to  some  woman  who's  not  mar-, 
ried,  like  me,  and  not  as  young  as  she  used  to  be. 
There's  no  use  going  to  Mrs.  McKee:  she's  a  widow, 
and  would  n't  understand.'  ' 

Harriet's  voice  was  a  trifle  sharp  as  she  replied. 
She  never  lied  about  her  age,  but  she  preferred  to 
forget  it. 

" I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what  you're  getting  at." 

"  It  ain't  the  sort  of  thing  to  come  to  too  sudden. 
133 


K 


But  it 's  like  this.  You  and  I  can  pretend  all  we  like. 
Miss  Harriet;  but  we're  not  getting  all  out  of  life 
that  the  Lord  meant  us  to  have.  You  've  got  them 
wax  figures  instead  of  children,  and  I  have  mealers." 

A  little  spot  of  color  came  into  Harriet's  cheek. 
But  she  was  interested.  Regardless  of  the  corset,  she 
hent  forward. 

"Maybe  that's  true.    Goon." 

"  I  'm  almost  forty.  Ten  years  more  at  the  most, 
and  I  'm  through.  I  'm  slowing  up.  Can't  get  around 
the  tables  as  I  used  to.  Why,  yesterday  I  put  sugar 
into  Mr.  Le  Moyne's  coffee  —  well,  never  mind 
about  that.  Now  I  Ve  got  a  chance  to  get  a  home, 
with  a  good  man  to  look  after  me  —  I  like  him  pretty 
well,  and  he  thinks  a  lot  of  me." 

"Mercy  sake,  Tillie!  You  are  going  to  get  mar- 
ried?" 

"No'm,"  said  Tillie;  "that's  it."  And  sat  silent 
for  a  moment. 

The  gray  curtains  with  their  pink  cording  swung 
gently  in  the  open  windows.  From  the  work-room 
came  the  distant  hum  of  a  sewing-machine  and  the 
sound  of  voices.  Harriet  sat  with  her  hands  in  her 
lap  and  listened  while  Tillie  poured  out  her  story.  The 
gates  were  down  now.  She  told  it  all,  consistently 
and  with  unconscious  pathos:  her  little  room  under 
the  roof  at  Mrs.  McKee's,  and  the  house  in  the  coun- 
try; her  loneliness,  and  the  loneliness  of  the  man; 
even  the  faint  stirrings  of  potential  motherhood,  her 
«mpty  arms,  her  advancing  age  —  all  this  she  knit 

1.34 


into  the  fabric  of  her  story  and  laid  at  Harriet  a 
feet,  as  the  ancients  put  their  questions  to  their 
gods. 

Harriet  was  deeply  moved.  Too  much  that  Tillie 
poured  out  to  her  found  an  echo  in  her  own  breast. 
What  was  this  thing  she  was  striving  for  but  a  sub< 
stitute  for  the  real  things  of  life  —  love  and  tender- 
ness, children,  a  home  of  her  own?  Quite  suddenly 
she  loathed  the  gray  carpet  on  the  floor,  the  pink 
chairs,  the  shaded  lamps.  Tillie  was  no  longer  the 
waitress  at  a  cheap  boarding-house.  She  loomed 
large,  potential,  courageous,  a  -woman  who  held  lift 
in  her  hands 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  Mrs.  Rosenfeld?  She'v. 
your  aunt,  is  n't  she?" 

"She  thinks  any  woman's  a  fool  to  take  up  with  a 
man." 

"You  're  giving  me  a  terrible  responsibility,  Tillie, 
if  you  're  asking  my  advice." 

1 '  No  'm.  I  'm  asking  what  you  'd  do  if  it  happened 
to  you.  Suppose  you  had  no  people  that  cared  any- 
thing about  you,  nobody  to  disgrace,  and  all  your 
life  nobody  had  really  cared  anything  about  you. 
And  then  a  chance  like  this  came  along.  What 
would  you  do?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  poor  Harriet.  "  It  seems  tc 
me  —  I  'm  afraid  I  'd  be  tempted.  It  does  seem  as 
if  a  woman  had  the  right  to  be  happy,  even  if  — " 

Her  own  words  frightened  her.  It  was  as  if  some 
hidden  self,  and  not  she,  had  spoken.  She  hastened 

135 


K 


to  point  out  the  other  side  of  the  matter,  the  inse« 
curity  of  it,  the  disgrace.  Like  K.,  she  insisted  that 
no  right  can  be  built  out  of  a  wrong.  Tillie  sat  and 
smoothed  her  gloves.  At  last,  when  Harriet  paused 
in  sheer  panic,  the  girl  rose. 

t  "I  know  how  you  feel,  and  I  don't  want  you  to 
take  the  responsibility  of  advising  me,"  she  said 
quietly.  "I  guess  my  mind  was  made  up  anyhow. 
But  before  I  did  it  I  just  wanted  to  be  sure  that  a 
decent  woman  would  think  the  way  I  do  about  it." 

And  so,  for  a  time,  Tillie  went  out  of  the  life  of  the 
Street  as  she  went  out  of  Harriet's  handsome  rooms, 
quietly,  unobtrusively,  with  calm  purpose  in  her 
eyes. 

There  were  other  changes  in  the  Street.  The 
Lorenz  house  was  being  painted  for  Christine'? 
wedding.  Johnny  Rosenfeld,  not  perhaps  of  the 
Street  itself,  but  certainly  pertaining  to  it,  was  learn- 
ing to  drive  Palmer  Howe's  new  car,  in  mingled 
agony  and  bliss.  He  walked  along  the  Street,  not 
"right  foot,  left  foot,"  but  "brake  foot,  clutch  foot," 
and  took  to  calling  off  the  vintage  of  passing  cars. 
"So-and-So  1910,"  he  would  say,  with  contempt  in 
his  voice.  He  spent  more  than  he  could  afford  on  a 
large  streamer,  meant  to  be  fastened  across  the  rear 
of  the  automobile,  which  said,  "Excuse  our  dust," 
and  was  inconsolable  when  Palmer  refused  to  let  him 
use  it. 

K.  had  yielded  to  Anna's  insistence,  and  was 
boaiding  as  well  as  rooming  at  the  Page  house.  The 

136 


Street,  rather  snobbish  to  its  occasional  floating 
population,  was  accepting  and  liking  him.  It  found 
him  tender,  infinitely  human.  And  in  return  he 
found  that  this  seemingly  empty  eddy  into  which 
lie  had  drifted  was  teeming  with  life.  He  busied 
himself  with  small  things,  and  found  his  outlook 
gradually  less  tinged  with  despair.  When  he  found 
himself  inclined  to  rail,  he  organized  a  baseball  club, 
and  sent  down  to  everlasting  defeat  the  Linburgs, 
consisting  of  cash-boys  from  Linden  and  Hofburg's 
department  stort. 

The  Rosenfelds  adored  him.  whir  the  single  ex- 
ception of  the  head  of  the  family.  The  elder  Rosen 
feld  having  been  "sent  up,"  it  was  K.  who  discov- 
ered that  by  having  him  consigned  to  the  workhouse 
•nis  family  would  receive  from  the  county  some 
sixty-five  cents  a  day  for  his  labor.  As  this  was 
exactly  sixty-five  cents  a  day  more  than  he  was 
worth  to  them  free,  Mrs.  Rosenfeld  voiced  the  pious 
hope  that  he  be  kept  there  forever. 

K.  made  no  further  attempt  to  avoid  Max  Wilson. 
Some  day  they  would  meet  face  to  face.  He  hoped, 
when  it  happened,  they  two  might  be  alone;  that 
svas  all.  Even  had  he  not  been  bound  by  his  promise 
to  Sidney,  flight  would  have  been  foolish.  The  world 
was  a  small  place,  and,  one  way  and  another,  he  had 
known  many  people.  Wherever  he  went,  there  would 
be  the  same  chance. 

And  he  did  not  deceive  himself.  Other  things 
being  equal,  —  the  eddy  and  all  that  it  meant.  — - 

137 


he  would  not  willingly  take  himself  out  of  his  small 
share  of  Sidney's  life. 

She  was  never  to  know  what  she  meant  to  him,  of 
course.  He  had  scourged  his  heart  until  it  no  longer 
shone  in  his  eyes  when  he  looked  at  her.  But  he  was 
very  human  —  not  at  all  meek.  There  were  plenty 
of  days  when  his  philosophy  lay  in  the  dust  and 
savage  dogs  of  jealousy  tore  at  it;  more  than  one 
evening  when  he  threw  himself  face  downward  on 
the  bed  and  lay  without  moving  for  hours.  And  of 
these  periods  of  despair  he  was  always  heartily 
ashamed  the  next  day. 

The  meeting  with  Max  Wilson  took  place  early 
in  September,  and  under  better  circumstances  than 
he  could  have  hoped  for. 

Sidney  had  come  home  for  her  weekly  visit,  and 
her  mother's  condition  had  alarmed  her  for  the  first 
time.  When  Le  Moyne  came  home  at  six  o'clock, 
he  found  her  waiting  for  him  in  the  hall. 

"  I  am  just  a  little  frightened,  K.,"  she  said.  "  Do 
you  think  mother  is  looking  quite  well?" 

"She  has  felt  the  heat,  of  course.  The  summer —  " 

"Her  lips  are  blue!" 

"It's  probably  nothing  serious." 

"She  says  you've  had  Dr.  Ed  over  to  see  her." 

She  put  her  hands  on  his  arm  and  looked  up  at 
him  with  appeal  and  something  of  terror  in  her  face. 

Thus  cornered,  he  had  to  acknowledge  that  Anna 
had  been  out  of  sorts. 

"I  shall  come  home,  of  course.    It's  tragic  and 

138 


absurd  that  I  should  be  caring  for  other  people,  when 
my  own  mother  — " 

She  dropped  her  head  on  his  arm,  and  he  saw 
that  she  was  crying.  If  he  made  a  gesture  to  draw 
her  to  him,  she  never  knew  it.  After  a  moment  she 
looked  up. 

"  I  'm  much  braver  than  this  in  the  hospital.  But 
when  it's  one's  own!" 

K.  was  sorely  tempted  to  tell  her  the  truth  and 
bring  her  back  to  the  little  house:  to  their  old  even- 
ings together,  to  seeing  the  younger  Wilson,  not  as 
the  white  god  of  the  operating-room  and  the  hospital, 
but  as  the  dandy  of  the  Street  and  the  neighbor  of 
her  childhood  —  back  even  to  Joe. 

But,  with  Anna's  precarious  health  and  Harriet's 
increasing  engrossment  in  her  business,  he  felt  it 
more  and  more  necessary  that  Sidney  go  on  with  her 
training.  A  profession  was  a  safeguard.  And  there 
was  another  point:  it  had  been  decided  that  Anna 
was  not  to  know  her  condition.  If  she  was  not  wor- 
ried she  might  live  for  years.  There  was  no  surer 
way  to  make  her  suspect  it  than  by  bringing  Sidney 
home. 

Sidney  sent  Katie  to  ask  Dr.  Ed  to  come  over  after 
dinner.  With  the  sunset  Anna  seemed  better.  She 
insisted  on  coming  downstairs,  and  even  sat  with 
them  on  the  balcony  until  the  stars  came  out,  talk- 
ing of  Christine's  trousseau,  and,  rather  fretfully,  of 
what  she  would  do  without  the  parlors. 

"You  shall  have  your  own  boudoir  upstairs," 
139 


said  Sidney  valiantly.  "Katie  can  carry  your  tray 
up  there.  We  are  going  to  make  the  sewing-room 
into  your  private  sitting-room,  and  I  shall  nail  the 
machine- top  down." 

This  pleased  her.  When  K.  insisted  on  carrying 
her  upstairs,  she  went  in  a  flutter. 

"He  is  so  strong,  Sidney!"  she  said,  when  he  had 
placed  her  on  her  bed.  "How  can  a  clerk,  bend- 
ing over  a  ledger,  be  so  muscular?  When  I  have 
callers,  will  it  be  all  right  for  Katie  to  show  them 
upstairs?" 

She  dropped  asleep  before  the  doctor  came; 
and  when,  at  something  after  eight,  the  door  of  the 
Wilson  house  slammed  and  a  figure  crossed  the 
street,  it  was  not  Ed  at  all,  but  the  surgeon. 

Sidney  had  been  talking  rather  more  frankly  than 
usual.  Lately  there  had  been  a  reserve  about  her. 
K.,  listening  intently  that  night,  read  between 
words  a  story  of  small  persecutions  and  jealousies^ 
But  the  girl  minimized  them,  after  her  way. 

"It's  always  hard  for  probationers,"  she  said. 
"  I  often  think  Miss  Harrison  is  trying  my  mettle.'* 

"Harrison!" 

"Carlotta  Harrison.  And  now  that  Miss  Gregg 
has  said  she  will  accept  me,  it 's  really  all  over.  The 
other  nurses  are  wonderful  —  so  kind  and  so  help- 
ful. I  hope  I  shall  look  well  in  my  cap." 

Carlotta  Harrison  was  in  Sidney's  hospital!  A 
thousand  contingencies  flashed  through  his  mind. 
Sidney  might  grow  to  like  her  and  bring  her  to  the 

140 


house.  Sidney  might  insist  on  the  thing  she  always 
spoke  of  —  that  he  visit  the  hospital ;  and  he  would 
meet  her,  face  to  face.  He  could  have  depended  on 
a  man  to  keep  his  secret.  This  girl  with  her  somber 
eyes  and  her  threat  to  pay  him  out  for  what  had 
happened  to  her  —  she  meant  danger  of  a  sort 
that  no  man  could  fight. 

"Soon,"  said  Sidney,  through  the  warm  darkness, 
"  I  shall  have  a  cap,  and  be  always  forgetting  it  and 
putting  my  hat  on  over  it  —  the  new  ones  always 
do.  One  of  the  girls  slept  in  hers  the  other  night! 
They  are  tulle,  you  know,  and  quite  stiff,  and  it  was 
the  most  erratic-looking  thing  the  next  day!" 

It  was  then  that  the  door  across  the  street  closed. 
Sidney  did  not  hear  it,  but  K.  bent  forward.  There 
was  a  part  of  his  brain  always  automatically  on 
watch. 

"I  shall  get  my  operating-room  training,  too," 
she  went  on.  "That  is  the  real  romance  of  the  hos- 
oital.  A  —  a  surgeon  is  a  sort  of  hero  in  a  hospital. 
You  would  n't  think  that,  would  you?  There  was  a 
lot  of  excitement  to-day.  Even  the  probationers' 
table  was  talking  about  it.  Dr.  Max  Wilson  did  the 
Edwardes  operation." 

The  figure  across  the  Street  was  lighting  a  cigar- 
ette. Perhaps,  after  all  - 

"Something  tremendously  difficult  —  I  don't 
know  what.  It 's  going  into  the  medical  journals.  A 
Dr.  Edwardes  invented  it,  or  whatever  they  call  it. 
They  took  a  picture  of  the  operating-room  for  the 

141 


article.  The  photographer  had  to  put  on  operating 
clothes  and  wrap  the  camera  in  sterilized  towels. 
It  was  the  most  thrilling  thing,  they  say  — " 

Her  voice  died  away  as  her  eyes  followed  K.'s. 
Max,  cigarette  in  hand,  was  coming  across,  under 
the  ailanthus  tree.  He  hesitated  on  the  pavement, 
his  eyes  searching  the  shadowy  balcony. 

"Sidney?" 

"Here!   Right  back  here !" 

There  was  vibrant  gladness  in  her  tone.  He  came 
slowly  toward  them. 

"My  brother  is  not  at  home,  so  I  came  over. 
How  select  you  are,  with  your  balcony!" 

"Can  you  see  the  step?" 

"Coming,  with  bells  on." 

K.  had  risen  and  pushed  back  his  chair.  His  mind 
was  working  quickly.  Here  in  the  darkness  he  could 
hold  the  situation  for  a  moment.  If  he  cou)d  get 
Sidney  into  the  house,  the  rest  would  not  matter. 
Luckily,  the  balcony  was  very  dark. 

"  Is  any  one  ill?" 

"  Mother  is  not  well.  This  is  Mr.  Le  Moyne,  and 
he  knows  who  you  are  very  well,  indeed." 

The  two  men  shook  hands. 

" I've  heard  a  lot  of  Mr.  Le  Moyne.  Did  n't  the 
Street  beat  the  Linburgs  the  other  day?  And  I  be- 
lieve the  Rosenfelds  are  in  receipt  of  sixty-five  cents 
a  day  and  considerable  peace  and  quiet  through  you, 
Mr.  Le  Moyne.  You're  the  most  popular  man  on 
the  Street." 

142 


"  I  Ve  always  heard  that  about  you.  Sidney,  if 
Dr.  Wilson  is  here  to  see  your  mother  — " 

"Going,"  said  Sidney.  "And  Dr.  Wilson  is  a  very 
great  person,  K.,  so  be  polite  to  him." 

Max  had  roused  at  the  sound  of  Le  Moyne's 
voice,  not  to  suspicion,  of  course,  but  to  memory. 
Without  any  apparent  reason,  he  was  back  in  Berlin, 
tramping  the  country  roads,  and  beside  him  — 

"Wonderful  night!" 

"Great,"  he  replied.  "The  mind's  a  curious 
thing,  is  n't  it.  In  the  instant  since  Miss  Page  went 
through  that  window  I  Ve  been  to  Berlin  and  back! 
Will  you  have  a  cigarette?" 

"Thanks;  I  have  my  pipe  here." 

K.  struck  a  match  with  his  steady  hands.  Now 
that  the  thing  had  come,  he  was  glad  to  face  it.  In 
the  fiare,  his  quiet  profile  glowed  against  the  night. 
Then  he  flung  the  match  over  the  rail. 

"  Perhaps  my  voice  took  you  back  to  Berlin." 

Max  stared;  then  he  rose.  Blackness  had  de- 
scended on  them  again,  except  for  the  dull  glow  of 
K.'s  old  pipe. 

"For  God's  sake!" 

"  Sh!  The  neighbors  next  door  have  a  bad  habit 
of  sitting  just  inside  the  curtains." 

"But  — you!" 

"  Sit  down.  Sidney  will  be  back  in  a  moment.  I  '11 
talk  to  you,  if  you'll  sit  still.  Can  you  hear  me 
plainly?" 

After  a  moment  —  "Yes." 


"  I  've  been  here  —  in  the  city,  I  mean  —  for  a 
year.  Name 's  Le  Moyne.  Don't  forget  it  —  Le 
Moyne.  I  've  got  a  position  in  the  gas  office,  clerical. 
I  get  fifteen  dollars  a  week.  I  have  reason  to  think 
I'm  going  to  be  moved  up.  That  will  be  twenty, 
maybe  twenty- two." 

Wilson  stirred,  but  he  found  no  adequate  words. 
Only  a  part  of  what  K.  said  got  to  him.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  was  back  in  a  famous  clinic,  and  this  man 
across  from  him  —  it  was  not  believable ! 

"It's  not  hard  work,  and  it's  safe.  If  I  make  a 
mistake  there's  no  life  hanging  on  it.  Once  I  made 
a  blunder,  a  month  or  two  ago.  It  was  a  big  one.  It 
cost  me  three  dollars  out  of  my  own  pocket-  But  — 
that 'sail  it  cost." 

Wilson's  voice  showed  that  he  was  more  than  in- 
credulous; he  was  profoundly  moved. 

"We  thought  you  were  dead.  There  were  all 
sorts  of  stories.  When  a  year  went  by  —  the  Titanic 
had  gone  down,  and  nobody  knew  but  what  you 
were  on  it  —  we  gave  up.  I  —  in  June  we  put  up 
a  tablet  for  you  at  the  college.  I  went  down  for  the 
—  for  the  services." 

"Let  it  stay,"  said  K.  quietly.  "I'm  dead  as  far 
as  the  college  goes,  anyhow.  I  '11  never  go  back.  I  'm 
Le  Moyne  now.  And,  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  be 
sorry  for  me.  I  'm  more  contented  than  I  Ve  been 
for  a  long  time." 

The  wonder  in  Wilson's  voice  was  giving  way  to 
Irritation. 

144 


"But  —  when  you  had  everything!  Why,  good 
Heavens,  man,  I  did  your  operation  to-day,  and  I  Ve 
been  blowing  about  it  ever  since." 

"I  had  everything  for  a  while.  Then  I  lost  the 
essential.  When  that  happened  I  gave  up.  All  a  man 
in  our  profession  has  is  a  certain  method,  knowledge 
—  call  it  what  you  like,  —  and  faith  in  himself.  I  lost 
my  self-confidence;  that's  all.  Certain  things  hap- 
pened; kept  on  happening.  So  I  gave  it  up.  That 'sail 
It 's  not  dramatic.  For  about  a  year  I  was  damned 
sorry  for  myself.  I've  stopped  whining  now." 

"If  every  surgeon  gave  up  because  he  lost  cases 

-  I've  just  told  you  I  did  your  operation  to-day. 

There  was  just  a  chance  for  the  man,  and  I  took 

my  courage  in  my  hands  and  tried  it.    The  poor 

devil's  dead." 

K.  rose  rather  wearily  and  emptied  his  pipe  over 
the  balcony  rail. 

"That's  not  the  same.  That's  the  chance  he  and 
you  took.  What  happened  to  me  was  —  different." 

Pipe  in  hand,  he  stood  staring  out  at  the  ailanthus 
tree  with  its  crown  of  stars.  Instead  of  the  Street 
with  its  quiet  houses,  he  saw  the  men  he  had  known 
and  worked  with  and  taught,  his  friends  who  spoke 
his  language,  who  had  loved  him,  many  of  them, 
gathered  about  a  bronze  tablet  set  in  a  wall  of  the 
old  college;  he  saw  their  earnest  faces  and  grave 
eyes.  He  heard  - 

He  heard  the  soft  rustle  of  Sidney's  dress  as  she 
came  into  the  little  room  behind  them. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  FEW  days  after  Wilson's  recognition  of  K.,  two 
most  exciting  things  happened  to  Sidney.  One  was 
that  Christine  asked  her  to  be  maid  of  honor  at  her 
wedding.  The  other  was  more  wonderful.  She  was 
accepted,  and  given  her  cap. 

Because  she  could  not  get  home  that  night,  and 
because  the  little  house  had  no  telephone,  she  wrote 
the  news  to  her  mother  and  sent  a  note  to  Le  Moyne: 

DEAR  K.,  —  I  am  accepted,  and  it  is  on  my  head 
at  this  minute.  I  am  as  conscious  of  it  as  if  it  were 
a  halo,  and  as  if  I  had  done  something  to  deserve  it, 
instead  of  just  hoping  that  some  day  I  shall.  I  am 
writing  this  on  the  bureau,  so  that  when  I  lift  my 
eyes  I  may  see  It.  I  am  afraid  just  now  I  am  thinking 
more  of  the  cap  than  of  what  it  means.  It  is  becom- 
ing! 

Very  soon  I  shall  slip  down  and  show  it  to  the 
ward.  I  have  promised.  I  shall  go  to  the  door  when 
the  night  nurse  is  busy  somewhere,  and  turn  all 
around  and  let  them  see  it,  without  saying  a  word. 
They  love  a  little  excitement  like  that. 

You  have  been  very  good  to  me,  dear  K.  It  is 
you  who  have  made  possible  this  happiness  of 
mine  to-night.  I  am  promising  myself  to  be  very 
good,  and  not  so  vain,  and  to  love  my  enemies  — > 

146 


although  I  have  none  now.    Miss  Harrison  has  just 
congratulated  me  most  kindly,  and  I  am  sure  pool 
Joe  has  both  forgiven  and  forgotten. 
Off  to  my  first  lecture! 

SIDNEY. 

K.  found  the  note  on  the  hall  table  wnen  he  got 
home  that  night,  and  carried  it  upstairs  to  read. 
Whatever  faint  hope  he  might  have  had  that  her 
youth  would  prevent  her  acceptance  he  knew  now 
was  over.  With  the  letter  in  his  hand,  he  sat  by 
his  table  and  looked  ahead  into  the  empty  years. 
Not  quite  empty,  of  course.  She  would  be  coming 
home. 

But  more  and  more  the  life  of  the  hospital  would 
engross  her.  He  surmised,  too,  very  shrewdly,  that, 
had  he  ever  had  a  hope  that  she  might  come  to  care 
for  him,  his  very  presence  in  the  little  house  mili- 
tated against  him.  There  was  none  of  the  illusion  of 
separation ;  he  was  always  there,  like  Katie.  When 
she  opened  the  door,  she  called  "Mother"  from  the 
hall.  If  Anna  did  not  answer,  she  called  him,  in 
much  the  same  voice. 

He  had  built  a  wall  of  philosophy  that  had  with- 
stood even  Wilson's  recognition  and  protest.  But 
enduring  philosophy  comes  only  with  time;  and  he 
was  young.  Now  and  then  all  his  defenses  crumbled 
before  a  passion  that,  when  he  dared  to  face  it,  shook 
him  by  its  very  strength.  And  that  day  all  his  stoi- 
cism went  down  before  Sidney's  letter.  Its  very 

14? 


frankness  and  affection  hurt  —  not  that  he  did  not 
want  her  affection;  but  he  craved  so  much  more. 
He  threw  himself  face  down  on  the  bed,  with  the 
paper  crushed  in  his  hand. 

Sidney's  letter  was  not  the  only  one  he  received 
that  day.  When,  in  response  to  Katie's  summons,  he 
rose  heavily  and  prepared  for  dinner,  he  found  an 
unopened  envelope  on  the  table.  It  was  from  Max 
Wilson :  — 

DEAR  LE  MOYNE,  —  I  have  been  going  around 
in  a  sort  of  haze  all  day.  The  fact  that  I  only  heard 
your  voice  and  scarcely  saw  you  last  night  has  made 
the  whole  thing  even  more  unreal. 

I  have  a  feeling  of  delicacy  about  trying  to  see  you 
again  so  soon.  I  'm  bound  to  respect  your  seclusion. 
But  there  are  some  things  that  have  got  to  be  dis- 
cussed. 

You  said  last  night  that  things  were  "different" 
with  you.  I  know  about  that.  You'd  had  one  or 
two  unlucky  accidents.  Do  you  know  any  man  in 
our  profession  who  has  not?  And,  for  fear  you  think 
I  do  not  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  the  thing  was 
threshed  out  at  the  State  Society  when  the  question 
of  the  tablet  came  up.  Old  Barnes  got  up  and  said: 
"Gentlemen,  all  of  us  live  more  or  less  in  glass 
houses.  Let  him  who  is  without  guilt  among  us  throw 
the  first  stone ! "  By  George !  You  should  have  heard 
them ! 

I  did  n't  sleep  last  night.  I  took  my  little  car  and 
148 


drove  around  the  country  roads,  and  the  farther 
I  went  the  more  outrageous  your  position  became. 
I  'm  not  going  to  write  any  rot  about  the  world 
needing  men  like  you,  although  it 's  true  enough.  But 
our  profession  does.  You  working  in  a  gas  office, 
while  old  O'Hara  bungles  and  hacks,  and  I  struggle 
along  on  what  I  learned  from  you ! 

It  takes  courage  to  step  down  from  the  pinnacle 
you  stood  on.  So  it's  not  cowardice  that  has  set 
you  down  here.  It 's  wrong  conception.  And  I  've 
thought  of  two  things.  The  first,  and  best,  is  for  you 
to  go  back.  No  one  has  taken  your  place,  because 
no  one  could  do  the  work.  But  if  that 's  out  of  the 
question,  —  and  only  you  know  that,  for  only  you 
know  the  facts,  —  the  next  best  thing  is  this,  and  in 
all  humility  I  make  the  suggestion. 

Take  the  State  exams  under  your  present  name, 
and  when  you  Ve  got  your  certificate,  come  in  with 
me.  This  is  n't  magnanimity. .  I  '11  be  getting  a 
damn  sight  more  than  I  give. 

Think  it  over,  old  man.  M.  W. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  a  man  who  is  absolutely- 
untrustworthy  about  women  is  often  the  soul  of 
honor  to  other  men.  The  younger  Wilson,  taking 
his  pleasures  lightly  and  not  too  discriminatingly, 
was  making  an  offer  that  meant  his  ultimate  eclipse, 
and  doing  it  cheerfully,  with  his  eyes  open. 

K.  was  moved.  It  was  like  Max  to  make  such  an 
offer,  like  him  to  '  .  it  as  if  he  were  asking  a  favor 

149 


K 


and  not  conferring  one.  But  the  offer  left  him  un- 
tempted.  He  had  weighed  himself  in  the  balance, 
and  found  himself  wanting.  No  tablet  on  the  col- 
lege wall  could  change  that.  And  when,  late  that 
night,  Wilson  found  him  on  the  balcony  and  added 
appeal  to  argument,  the  situation  remained  un- 
changed. He  realized  its  hopelessness  when  K. 
lapsed  into  whimsical  humor. 

"I'm  not  absolutely  useless  where  I  am,  you 
know,  Max,"  he  said.  "I've  raised  three  tomato 
plants  and  a  family  of  kittens  this  summer,  helped 
to  plan  a  trousseau,  assisted  in  selecting  wall-paper 
for  the  room  just  inside,  —  did  you  notice  it?  —  and 
developed  a  boy  pitcher  with  a  ball  that  twists 
around  the  bat  like  a  Colles  fracture  around  a 
splint!" 

" If  you're  going  to  be  humorous  — " 

"My  dear  fellow*,"  said  K.  quietly,  "if  I  had  no 
sense  of  humor,  I  should  go  upstairs  to-night,  turn 
on  the  gas,  and  make  a  stertorous  entrance  into 
eternity.  By  the  way,  that's  something  I  forgot!" 

"Eternity?" 

"  No.  Among  my  other  activities,  I  wired  the  par- 
lor for  electric  light.  The  bride-to-be  expects  some 
electroliers  as  wedding  gifts,  and  — " 

Wilson  rose  and  flung  his  cigarette  into  the  grass. 

"I  wish  to  God  I  understood  you!"  he  said  irri- 
tably. 

K.  rose  with  him,  and  all  the  suppressed  feeling 
of  the  interview  was  crowded  into  his  last  few  words. 

150 


"I'm  not  as  ungrateful  as  you  think,  Max,"  he 
said.  "I  —  you  Ve  helped  a  lot.  Don't  worry  about 
me.    I  'm  as  well  off  as  I  deserve  to  be,  and  better 
Good-night." 

"Good-night." 

Wilson's  unexpected  magnanimity  put  K.  in  a 
curious  position  —  left  him,  as  it  were,  with  a  di- 
vided allegiance.  Sidney's  frank  infatuation  for  the 
young  surgeon  was  growing.  He  was  quick  to  see  it. 
And  where  before  he  might  have  felt  justified  in  go- 
ing to  the  length  of  warning  her,  now  his  hands  were 
tied. 

Max  was  interested  in  her.  K.  could  see  that,  too. 
More  than  once  he  had  taken  Sidney  back  to  the 
hospital  in  his  car.  Le  Moyne,  handicapped  at  every 
turn,  found  himself  facing  two  alternatives,  one  but 
little  better  than  the  other.  The  affair  might  run 
a  legitimate  course,  ending  in  marriage  —  a  year  of 
happiness  for  her,  and  then  what  marriage  with  Max, 
as  he  knew  him,  would  inevitably  mean:  wanderings 
away,  remorseful  returns  to  her,  infidelities,  misery. 
Or,  it  might  be  less  serious  but  almost  equally  un- 
happy for  her.  Max  might  throw  caution  to  the 
winds,  pursue  her  for  a  time,  —  K.  had  seen  him  do 
this,  —  and  then,  growing  tired,  change  to  some  new 
attraction.  In  either  case,  he  could  only  wait  and 
watch,  eating  his  heart  out  during  the  long  evenings 
when  Anna  read  her  "Daily  Thoughts"  upstairs 
and  he  sat  alone  with  his  pipe  on  the  balcony. 

Sidney  went  on  night  duty  shortly  after  her 


acceptance.  All  of  her  orderly  young  life  had  been 
divided  into  two  parts:  day,  when  one  played  or 
worked,  and  night,  when  one  slept.  Now  she  was 
compelled  to  a  readjustment:  one  worked  in  the 
night  and  slept  in  the  day.  Things  seemed  unnat- 
ural, chaotic.  At  the  end  of  her  first  night  report 
Sidney  added  what  she  could  remember  of  a  little 
verse  of  Stevenson's.  She  added  it  to  the  end  of  her 
general  report,  which  was  to  the  effect  that  every- 
thing had  been  quiet  during  the  night  except  the 
neighborhood. 

"  And  does  it  not  seem  hard  to  you, 
When  all  the  sky  is  clear  and  blue, 
And  I  should  like  so  much  to  play, 
To  have  to  go  to  bed  by  day?  " 

The  day  assistant  happened  on  the  report,  and 
was  quite  scandalized. 

"If  the  night  nurses  are  to  spend  their  time 
making  up  poetry,"  she  said  crossly,  "we'd  better 
change  this  hospital  into  a  young  ladies'  seminary. 
If  she  wants  to  complain  about  the  noise  in  the  street, 
she  should  do  so  in  proper  form." 

"I  don't  think  she  made  it  up,"  said  the  Head, 
trying  not  to  smile.  "I've  heard  something  like  it 
somewhere,  and,  what  with  the  heat  and  the  noise 
of  traffic,  I  don't  see  how  any  of  them  get  any 
sleep." 

But,  because  discipline  must  be  observed,  she 
wrote  on  the  slip  the  assistant  carried  around: 
il  Please  submit  night  reports  in  prose." 

152 


Sidney  did  not  sleep  much.  She  tumbled  into  her 
low  bed  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  those  days, 
with  her  splendid  hair  neatly  braided  down  her 
back  and  her  prayers  said,  and  immediately  her 
active  young  mind  filled  with  images  —  Christine's 
wedding,  Dr.  Max  passing  the  door  of  her  old  ward 
and  she  not  there,  Joe  —  even  Tillie,  whose  story 
was  now  the  sensation  of  the  Street.  A  few  months 
before  she  would  not  have  cared  to  think  of  Tillie. 
She  would  have  retired  her  into  the  land  of  things- 
one-must-forget.  But  the  Street's  conventions  were 
not  holding  Sidney's  thoughts  now.  She  puzzled 
over  Tillie  a  great  deal,  and  over  Grace  and  her  kind. 

On  her  first  night  on  duty,  a  girl  had  been  brought 
in  from  the  Avenue.  She  had  taken  a  poison  —  no- 
body knew  just  what.  When  the  internes  had  tried 
to  find  out,  she  had  only  said:  'What's  the  use?" 

And  she  had  died. 

Sidney  kept  asking  herself,  "Why?"  those  morn- 
ings when  she  could  not  get  to  sleep.  People  were 
kind,  — •  men  were  kind,  really,  —  and  yet,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  those  things  had  to  be.  Why? 

After  a  time  Sidney  would  doze  fitfully.  But  by 
three  o'clock  she  was  always  up  and  dressing.  After 
a  time  the  strain  told  on  her.  Lack  of  sleep  wrote 
hollows  around  her  eyes  and  killed  some  of  her 
bright  color.  Between  three  and  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning  she  was  overwhelmed  on  duty  by  a  perfect 
madness  of  sleep.  There  was  a  penalty  for  sleeping 
on  duty.  The  old  night  watchman  had  a  way  of  slip- 

153  . 


ping  up  on  one  nodding.  The  night  nurses  wished 
they  might  fasten  a  bell  on  him ! 

Luckily,  at  four  came  early-morning  tempera- 
tures; that  roused  her.  And  after  that  came  the 
clatter  of  early  milk-wagons  and  the  rose  hues  of 
dawn  over  the  roofs.  Twice  in  the  night,  once  at 
supper  and  again  toward  dawn,  she  drank  strong 
black  coffee.  But  after  a  week  or  two  her  nerves 
were  stretched  taut  as  a  string. 

Her  station  was  in  a  small  room  close  to  her  three 
wards.  But  she  sat  very  little,  as  a  matter  of  fact. 
Her  responsibility  was  heavy  on  her;  she  made  fre- 
quent rounds.  The  late  summer  nights  were  fitful, 
feverish;  the  darkened  wards  stretched  away  like 
caverns  from  the  dim  light  near  the  door.  And  from 
out  of  these  caverns  came  petulant  voices,  uneasy 
movements,  the  banging  of  a  cup  on  a  bedside,  which 
was  the  signal  of  thirst. 

The  older  nurses  saved  themselves  when  they 
could.  To  them,  perhaps  just  a  little  weary  with  time 
and  much  service,  the  banging  cup  meant  not  so 
much  thirst  as  annoyance.  They  visited  Sidney 
sometimes  and  cautioned  her. 

"  Don't  jump  like  that,  child ;  they  're  not  parched, 
you  know." 

"But  if  you  have  a  fever  and  are  thirsty  - 

"Thirsty  nothing !  They  get  lonely.  All  they  want 
is  to  see  somebody." 

"Then,"  Sidney  would  say,  rising  resolutely, 
"they  are  going  to  see  me." 

154 


Gradually  the  older  girls  saw  that  she  would  not 
save  herself.  They  liked  her  very  much,  and  they, 
too,  had  started  in  with  willing  feet  and  tender  hands ; 
but  the  thousand  and  one  demands  of  their  service 
had  drained  them  dry.  They  were  efficient,  cool- 
headed,  quick- thinking  machines,  doing  their  best, 
of  course,  but  differing  from  Sidney  in  that  their 
service  was  of  the  mind,  while  hers  was  of  the 
heart.  To  them,  pain  was  a  thing  to  be  recorded 
on  a  report ;  to  Sidney,  it  was  written  on  the  tablets 
of  her  soul. 

Carlotta  Harrison  went  on  night  duty  at  the  same 
time  —  her  last  night  service,  as  it  was  Sidney's  first. 
She  accepted  it  stoically.  She  had  charge  of  the  three 
wards  on  the  floor  just  below  Sidney,  and  of  the 
ward  into  which  all  emergency  cases  were  taken.  It 
was  a  difficult  service,  perhaps  the  most  difficult  in 
the  house.  Scarcely  a  night  went  by  without  its  pa- 
trol or  ambulance  case.  Ordinarily,  the  emergency 
ward  had  its  own  night  nurse.  But  the  house  was 
full  to  overflowing.  Belated  vacations  and  illness 
had  depleted  the  training-school.  Carlotta,  given 
double  duty,  merely  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I've  always  had  things  pretty  hard  here,"  she 
commented  briefly.  "When  I  go  out,  I'll  either  be 
competent  enough  to  run  a  whole  hospital  single- 
handed,  or  I'll  be  carried  out  feet  first." 

Sidney  was  glad  to  have  her  so  near.  She  knew 
her  better  than  she  knew  the  other  nurses.  Small 
emergencies  were  constantly  arising  and  finding  her 

155 


at  a  loss.  Once  at  least  every  night,  Miss  Harrison 
would  hear  a  soft  hiss  from  the  back  staircase  that 
connected  the  two  floors,  and,  going  out,  would  see 
Sidney's  flushed  face  and  slightly  crooked  cap  bend- 
ing over  the  stair-rail. 

"  I  'm  dreadfully  sorry  to  bother  you,"  she  would 
say,  "but  So-and-So  won't  have  a  fever  bath";  or, 
"I've  a  woman  here  who  refuses  her  medicine." 
Then  would  follow  rapid  questions  and  equally 
rapid  answers.  Much  as  Carlotta  disliked  and 
feared  the  girl  overhead,  it  never  occurred  to  her  to 
refuse  her  assistance.  Perhaps  the  angels  who  keep 
the  great  record  will  put  that  to  her  credit. 

Sidney  saw  her  first  death  shortly  after  she  went 
on  night  duty.  It  was  the  most  terrible  experience, 
of  all  her  life;  and  yet,  as  death  goes,  it  was  quiet 
enough.  So  gradual  was  it  that  Sidney,  with  K.'s 
little  watch  in  hand,  was  not  sure  exactly  when  it 
happened.  The  light  was  very  dim  behind  the  little 
screen.  One  moment  the  sheet  was  quivering  slightly 
under  the  struggle  for  breath,  the  next  it  was  .still. 
That  was  all.  But  to  the  girl  it  was  catastrophe. 
That  life,  so  potential,  so  tremendous  a  thing,  could 
end  so  ignominiously,  that  the  long  battle  should 
terminate  always  in  this  capitulation  —  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  could  not  stand  it.  Added  to  all  her 
other  new  problems  of  living  was  this  one  of  dying. 

She  made  mistakes,  of  course,  which  the  kindly 
nurses  forgot  to  report  —  basins  left  about,  errors 

156. 


on  her  records.  She  rinsed  her  thermometer  in  hot 
water  one  night,  and  startled  an  interne  by  sending 
him  word  that  Mary  McGuire's  temperature  was  a 
hundred  and  ten  degrees.  She  let  a  delirious  patient 
escape  from  the  ward  another  night  and  go  airily 
down  the  fire-escape  before  she  discovered  what  had 
happened !  Then  she  distinguished  herself  by  flying 
down  the  iron  staircase  and  bringing  the  runaway 
back  single-handed. 

For  Christine's  wedding  the  Street  threw  off  its 
drab  attire  and  assumed  a  wedding  garment.  In  the 
beginning  it  was  incredulous  about  some  of  the  de- 
tails. 

"An  awning  from  the  house  door  to  the  curbstone, 
and  a  policeman!"  reported  Mrs.  Rosenfeld,  who 
was  finding  steady  employment  at  the  Lorenz 
house.  "And  another  awning  at  the  church,  with 
a  red  carpet!" 

Mr.  Rosenfeld  had  arrived  home  and  was  making 
up  arrears  of  rest  and  recreation. 

"Huh!"  he  said.  "Suppose  it  don't  rain.  What 
then?"  His  Jewish  father  spoke  in  him. 

"And  another  policeman  at  the  church!"  said 
Mrs.  Rosenfeld  triumphantly. 

"Why  do  they  ask  'em  if  they  don't  trust  'em?" 

But  the  mention  of  the  policemen  had  been  un- 
fortunate. It  recalled  to  him  many  things  that 
were  better  forgotten.  He  rose  and  scowled  at  his 
wife. 


"You  tell  Johnny  something  for  me,"  he  snarled. 
"  You  tell  him  when  he  sees  his  father  walking  down 
street,  and  he  sittin'  up  there  alone  on  that  auto- 
mobile, I  want  him  to  stop  and  pick  me  up  when  I 
hail  him.  Me  walking,  while  my  son  swells  around 
in  a  car!  And  another  thing."  He  turned  savagely  at 
the  door.  "  You  let  me  hear  of  him  road-housin',  and 
I'll  kill  him!" 

The  wedding  was  to  be  at  five  o'clock.  This,  in 
itself,  defied  all  traditions  of  the  Street,  which  was 
either  married  in  the  very  early  morning  at  the 
Catholic  church  or  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening 
at  the  Presbyterian.  There  was  something  reckless 
about  five  o'clock.  The  Street  felt  the  dash  of  it. 
It  had  a  queer  feeling  that  perhaps  such  a  marriage 
was  not  quite  legal. 

The  question  of  what  to  wear  became,  for  the 
men,  an  earnest  one.  Dr.  Ed  resurrected  an  old 
black  frock-coat  and  had  a  "V"  of  black  cambric 
set  in  the  vest.  Mr.  Jenkins,  the  grocer,  rented  a 
cutaway,  and  bought  a  new  Panama  to  wear  with 
it.  The  deaf-and-dumb  book  agent  who  boarded 
at  McKees',  and  who,  by  reason  of  his  affliction,  was 
calmly  ignorant  of  the  excitement  around  him,  wore 
a  borrowed  dress-suit,  and  considered  himself  to  the 
end  of  his  days  the  only  properly  attired  man  in  the 
church. 

The  younger  Wilson  was  to  be  one  of  the  ushers. 
When  the  newspapers  came  out  with  the  published 
and  this  was  discovered,  as  well  as  that  Sidney 
158 


was  the  maid  of  honor,  there  was  a  distinct  quiver 
through  the  hospital  training-school.  A  probationer 
was  authorized  to  find  out  particulars.  It  was  the 
day  of  the  wedding  then,  and  Sidney,  who  had  not 
been  to  bed  at  all,  was  sitting  in  a  sunny  window  in 
the  Dormitory  Annex,  drying  her  hair. 

The  probationer  was  distinctly  uneasy. 

"I  —  I  just  wonder,"  she  said,  "if  you  would  let 
some  of  the  girls  rome  in  to  see  you  when  you're 
dressed?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  will." 

"It's  awfully  thrillmg,  isn't  it?  And  —  isn't 
Dr.  Wilson  going  to  be  a'n  usher?" 

Sidney  colored.    "I  believe  so." 

"  Are  you  going  to  walk  down  the  aisle  with  him?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  They  had  a  rehearsal  last  night,, 
but  of  course  I  was  not  there.  I  —  I  think  I  walk 
alone." 

The  probationer  had  been  instructed  to  find  out 
other  things;  so  she  set  to  work  with  a  fan  at  Sid- 
ney's hair. 

"You've  known  Dr.  Wilson  a  long  time,  have  n't 
you?" 

"Ages." 

"He's  awfully  good-looking,  is  n't  he?" 

Sidney  considered.  She  was  not  ignorant  of  the 
methods  of  the  school.  If  this  girl  was  pumping 
her  — 

"I'll  have  to  think  that  over,"  she  said,  with  a 
vYmt  of  mischief  in  her  eyes.  "When  you  know  a 


K 


person  terribly  well,  you  hardly  know  whether  he's 
good-looking  or  not." 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  probationer,  running  the 
long  strands  of  Sidney's  hair  through  her  fingers 
"that  when  you  are  at  home  you  see  him  often." 

Sidney  got  off  the  window-sill,  and,  taking  the 
probationer  smilingly  by  the  shoulders,  faced  her 
toward  the  door. 

"You  go  back  to  the  girls,"  she  said,  "and  tell 
them  to  come  in  and  see  me  when  I  am  dressed,  and 
tell  them  this:  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  to  walk 
down  the  aisle  with  Dr.  Wilson,  but  I  hope  I  am.  I 
see  him  very  often.  I  like  him  very  much.  I  hope 
he  likes  me.  And  I  think  he's  handsome." 

She  shoved  the  probationer  out  into  the  hall  and 
locked  the  door  behind  her. 

That  message  in  its  entirety  reached  Carlotta 
Harrison.  Her  smouldering  eyes  flamed.  The  au- 
dacity of  it  startled  her.  Sidney  must  be  very  sure 
of  herself. 

She,  too,  had  not  slept  during  the  day.  When  the 
probationer  who  had  brought  her  the  report  had 
gone  out,  she  lay  in  her  long  white  night-gown, 
hands  clasped  under  her  head,  and  stared  at  the 
^ault-like  ceiling  of  her  little  room. 

She  saw  there  Sidney  in  her  white  dress  going  down 
the  aisle  of  the  church ;  she  saw  the  group  around  the 
altar;  and,  as  surely  as  she  lay  there,  she  knew  that 
Max  Wilson's  eyes  would  be,  not  on  the  bride,  but 
on  the  girl  who  stood  beside  her. 


The  curious  thing  was  that  Carlotta  felt  that  she 
could  stop  the  wedding  if  she  wanted  to.  She'd 
happened  on  a  bit  of  information  —  many  a  wed- 
ding had  been  stopped  for  less.  It  rather  obsessed 
her  to  think  of  stopping  the  wedding,  so  that  Sidney 
and  Max  would  not  walk  down  the  aisle  together. 

There  came,  at  last,  an  hour  before  the  wedding 
a  lull  in  the  feverish  activities  of  the  previous  month. 
Everything  was  ready.  In  the  Lorenz  kitchen,  piles 
of  plates,  negro  waiters,  ice-cream  freezers,  and 
Mrs.  Rosenfeld  stood  in  orderly  array.  In  the  attic, 
in  the  center  of  a  sheet,  before  a  toilet-table  which 
had  been  carried  upstairs  for  her  benefit,  sat,  on  this 
her  day  of  days,  the  bride.  All  the  second  story  had 
been  prepared  for  guests  and  presents. 

Florists  were  still  busy  in  the  room  below.  Brides- 
maids were  clustered  on  the  little  staircase,  bending 
over  at  each  new  ring  of  the  bell  and  calling  reports 
to  Christine  through  the  closed  door :  — 

"Another  wooden  box,  Christine.  It  looks  like 
more  plates.  What  will  you  ever  do  with  them  all?  " 

' '  Good  Heavens !  Here 's  another  of  the  neighbors 
who  wants  to  see  how  you  look.  Do  say  you  can't 
have  any  visitors  now." 

Christine  sat  alone  in  the  center  of  her  sheet.  The 
bridesmaids  had  been  sternly  forbidden  to  come  into 
iier  room. 

"I  have  n't  had  a  chance  to  think  for  a  month," 
she  said.  "And  I've  got  some  things  I've  got  to 
think  out." 

161 


But,  when  Sidney  came,  she  sent  for  her.  Sidney 
found  her  sitting  on  a  stiff  chair,  in  her  wedding- 
gown,  with  her  veil  spread  out  on  a  small  stand. 

"Close  the  door,"  said  Christine.  And,  after 
Sidney  had  kissed  her:  — 

"  I  've  a  good  mind  not  to  do  it." 

"You're  tired  and  nervous,  that's  all." 

"I  am,  of  course.  But  that  isn't  what's  wrong 
with  me.  Throw  that  veil  some  place  and  sit  down." 

Christine  was  undoubtedly  rouged,  a  very  deli- 
cate touch.  Sidney  thought  brides  should  be  rather 
pale.  But  under  her  eyes  were  lines  that  Sidney  had 
never  seen  there  before. 

"I'm  not  going  to  be  foolish,  Sidney.  I'll  go 
through  with  it,  of  course.  It  wrould  put  mamma  in 
her  grave  if  I  made  a  scene  now." 

She  suddenly  turned  on  Sidney. 

"  Palmer  gave  his  bachelor  dinner  at  the  Country 
Club  last  night.  They  all  drank  more  than  they 
should.  Somebody  called  father  up  to-day  and  said 
that  Palmer  had  emptied  a  bottle  of  wine  into  the 
piano.  He  has  n't  been  here  to-day." 

" He'll  be  along.  And  as  for  the  other  —  perhaps 
it  was  n't  Palmer  who  did  it." 

"That's  not  it,  Sidney.    I'm  frightened." 

Three  months  before,  perhaps,  Sidney  could  not 
have  comforted  her;  but  three  months  had  made  a 
change  in  Sidney.  The  complacent  sophistries  of  her 
girlhood  no  longer  answered  for  truth.  She  put  her 
arms  around  Christine's  shoulders. 

1 6? 


"  A  man  who  drinks  is  a  broken  reed,"  said  Chris* 
tine.  "That  's  what  I  'm  going  to  marry  and  lean  on 
the  rest  of  my  life  —  a  broken  reed.  And  that  is  n't 
ill!" 

She  got  up  quickly,  and,  trailing  her  long  satin 
train  across  the  floor,  bolted  the  door.  Then  from 
inside  her  corsage  she  brought  out  and  held  to  Sidney 
a  letter.  "Special  delivery.  Read  it." 

It  was  very  short;  Sidney  read  it  at  a  glance:  — 

Ask  your  future  husband  if  he  knows  a  girl  at 
213 Avenue. 

Three  months  before,  the  Avenue  would  have 
meant  nothing  to  Sidney.  Now  she  knew.  Christine^ 
more  sophisticated,  had  always  known. 

"You  see,"  she  said.  "That's  what  I'm  up 
against." 

Quite  suddenly  Sidney  knew  who  the  gJrl   at 

213 Avenue  was.  The  paper  she  held  in  her  hand 

was  hospital  paper  with  the  heading  torn  off.  The 
whole  sordid  story  lay  before  her:  Grace  Irving,  with 
her  thin  fac%  and  cropped  hair,  and  the  newspaper 
jn  the  floor  of  the  ward  beside  her! 

One  of  the  bridesmaids  thumped  violently  on  the 
door  outside. 

"Another  electric  lamp,"  she  called  excitedly 
ihrough  the  door.  "And  Palmer  is  downstairs." 

"You  see,"  Christine  said  drearily.  "I  have  re* 
reived  another  electric  lamp,  and  Palmer  is  down* 


K. 


stairs!  I've  got  to  go  through  with  it,  I  suppose 
The  only  difference  between  me  and  other  brides  is 
that  I  know  what  I  'm  getting.  Most  of  them  do 
not." 

"You're  going  on  with  it?" 
"It's  too  late  to  do  anything  else.    I  am  not 
going  to  give  this  neighborhood  anything  to  talk 
about." 

She  picked  up  her  veil  and  set  the  coronet  on  her 
head.  Sidney  stood  with  the  letter  in  her  hands. 
One  of  K.'s  answers  to  her  hot  question  had  been 
this:  — 

"There  is  no  sense  in  looking  back  unless  it  helps 
us  to  look  ahead.  What  your  little  girl  of  the  ward 
has  been  is  not  so  important  as  what  she  is  going  tc 
be." 

"Even  granting  this  to  be  true,"  she  said  to 
Christine  slowly,  —  "and  it  may  only  be  malicious, 
after  all,  Christine,  —  it's  surely  over  arid  done 
with.  It 's  not  Palmer's  past  that  concerns  you  now J 
it's  his  future  with  you,  is  n't  it?" 

Christine  had  finally  adjusted  her  veil.  A  band 
of  duchesse  lace  rose  like  a  coronet  from  her  soft 
hair,  and  from  it,  sweeping  to  the  end  of  her  train, 
fell  fold  after  fold  of  soft  tulle.  She  arranged  the 
coronet  carefully  with  small  pearl-topped  pins. 
Then  she  rose  and  put  her  hands  on  Sidney's  shoul- 
ders. 

"The  simple  truth  is,"  she  said  quietly,  "that  ! 
might  hold  Palmer  if  I  cared  —  terribly.  I  don't 

164 


K 


And  I'm  afraid  he  knows  it.    It's  my  pride  that's 
hurt,  nothing  else." 

And  thus  did  Christine  Lorenz  go  down  to  her 
wedding. 

Sidney  stood  for  a  moment,  her  eyes  on  the  letter 
she  held.  Already,  in  her  new  philosophy,  she  had 
learned  many  strange  things.  One  of  them  was  this: 
that  women  like  Grace  Irving  did  not  betray  their 
lovers;  that  the  code  of  the  underworld  was  "death 
to  the  squealer";  that  one  played  the  game,  and 
won  or  lost,  and  if  he  lost,  took  his  medicine.  If  not 
Grace,  then  who?  Somebody  else  in  the  hospital 
who  knew  her  story,  of  course.  But  who?  And 
again  —  why? 

Before  going  downstairs,  Sidney  placed  the  letter 
in  a  saucer  and  set  fire  to  it  writh  a  match.  Some 
of  the  radiance  had  died  out  of  her  eyes. 

The  Street  voted  the  wedding  a  great  success. 
The  alley,  however,  was  rather  confused  by  certain 
things.  For  instance,  it  regarded  the  awning  as  es- 
sentially for  the  carriage  guests,  and  showed  a  ten- 
dency to  duck  in  under  the  side  when  no  one  was 
looking.  Mrs.  Rosenfeld  absolutely  refused  to  take 
the  usher's  arm  which  was  offered  her,  and  said  she 
guessed  she  was  able  to  walk  up  alone. 

Johnny  Rosenfeld  came,  as  befitted  his  position, 
in  a  complete  chauffeur's  outfit  of  leather  cap  and 
leggings,  with  the  shield  that  was  his  State  license 
pinned  over  his  heart. 

165 


The  Street  came  decorously,  albeit  with  a  degree 
of  uncertainty  as  to  supper.  Should  they  put  some- 
thing on  the  stove  before  they  left,  in  case  only  ice- 
cream and  cake  were  served  at  the  house?  Or  was 
it  just  as  well  to  trust  to  luck,  and,  if  the  Lorenz 
supper  proved  inadequate,  to  sit  down  to  a  cold  snack 
when  they  got  home? 

To  K.,  sitting  in  the  back  of  the  church  between 
Harriet  and  Anna,  the  wedding  was  Sidney  —  Sid- 
ney only.  He  watched  her  first  steps  down  the  aisle, 
saw  her  chin  go  up  as  she  gained  poise  and  confi- 
dence, watched  the  swinging  of  her  young  figure  in 
its  gauzy  white  as  she  passed  him  and  went  forward 
past  the  long  rows  of  craning  necks.  Afterward  he 
could  not  remember  the  wedding  party  at  all.  The 
service  for  him  was  Sidney,  rather  awed  and  very 
serious,  beside  the  altar.  It  was  Sidney  who  came 
down  the  aisle  to  the  triumphant  strains  of  the  wed- 
ding march,  Sidney  with  Max  beside  her! 

On  his  right  sat  Harriet,  having  reached  the  first 
pinnacle  of  her  new  career.  The  wedding  gowns  were 
successful.  They  were  more  than  that  —  they  were 
triumphant.  Sitting  there,  she  cast  comprehensive 
eyes  over  the  church,  filled  with  potential  brides. 

To  Harriet,  then,  that  October  afternoon  was  a 
future  of  endless  lace  and  chiffon,  the  joy  of  creation, 
triumph  eclipsing  triumph.  But  to  Anna,  watching 
the  ceremony  with  blurred  eyes  and  ineffectual  bluish 
lips,  was  coming  her  hour.  Sitting  back  in  the  pew, 
with  her  hands  folded  over  her  prayer-book,  she 

1 66 


said  a  little  prayer  for  her  straight  young  daughter, 
facing  out  from  the  altar  with  clear,  unafraid  eyes. 
As  Sidney  and  Max  drew  near  the  door,  Joe  Drum- 
mond,  who  had  been  standing  at  the  back  of  the 
church,  turned  quickly  and  went  out.  He  stumbled, 
rather,  as  if  he  could  not  see. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  supper  at  the  White  Springs  Hotel  had  not 
been  the  last  supper  Carlotta  Harrison  and  Max 
Wilson  had  taken  together.  Carlotta  had  selected 
for  her  vacation  a  small  town  within  easy  motoring 
distance  of  the  city,  and  two  or  three  times  during 
her  two  weeks  off  duty  Wilson  had  gone  out  to  see 
her.  He  liked  being  with  her.  She  stimulated  him. 
For  once  that  he  could  see  Sidney,  he  saw  Carlotta 
twice. 

She  had  kept  the  affair  well  in  hand.  She  was 
playing  for  high  stakes.  She  knew  quite  well  the 
kind  of  man  with  whom  she  was  dealing  —  that 
he  would  pay  as  little  as  possible.  But  she  knew,  too, 
that,  let  him  want  a  thing  enough,  he  would  pay 
any  price  for  it,  even  marriage. 

She  was  very  skillful.  The  very  ardor  in  her  face 
was  in  her  favor.  Behind  her  hot  eyes  lurked  cold 
calculation.  She  would  put  the  thing  through,  and 
show  those  puling  nurses,  with  their  pious  eyes  and 
evening  prayers,  a  thing  or  two. 

During  that  entire  vacation  he  never  saw  her  in 
anything  more  elaborate  than  the  simplest  of  white 
dresses  modestly  open  at  the  throat,  sleeves  rolled 
up  to  show  her  satiny  arms.  There  were  no  other 
boarders  at  the  little  farmhouse.  She  sat  for  hours 

168 


K 


in  tne  summer  evenings  in  the  square  yard  filled  with 
apple  trees  that  bordered  the  highway,  carefully 
posed  over  a  book,  but  with  her  keen  eyes  always  on 
the  road.  She  read  Browning,  Emerson,  Swinburne, 
Once  he  found  her  with  a  book  that  she  hastily  con- 
cealed. He  insisted  on  seeing  it,  and  secured  it.  It 
was  a  book  on  brain  surgery.  Confronted  with  it, 
she  blushed  and  dropped  her  eyes. 

His  delighted  vanity  found  in  it  the  most  insidious 
of  compliments,  as  she  had  intended. 

"I  feel  such  an  idiot  when  I  am  with  you,"  she 
said.  "I  wanted  to  know  a  little  more  about  the 
things  you  do." 

That  put  their  relationship  on  a  new  and  ad* 
vanced  basis.  Thereafter  he  occasionally  talked  sur- 
gery instead  of  sentiment.  He  found  her  responsive, 
intelligent.  His  work,  a  sealed  book  to  his  women 
before,  lay  open  to  her. 

Now  and  then  their  professional  discussions  ended 
in  something  different.  The  two  lines  of  their  inter- 
est converged. 

"  Gad ! "  he  said  one  day.  "  I  look  forward  to  these 
evenings.  I  can  talk  shop  with  yju  without  either 
shocking  or  nauseating  you.  You  are  the  most 
intelligent  woman  I  know  —  and  one  of  the  pret- 
tiest." 

He  had  stopped  the  machine  on  the  crest  of  a 
hill  for  the  ostensible  purpose  of  admiring  the 
view. 

"As  long  as  you  talk  shop,"  she  said,  "  I  feel  that 
1 60 


there  is  nothing  wrong  in  our  being  togethei ;  but 
when  you  say  the  other  thing  — " 

"Is  it  wrong  to  tell  a  pretty  woman  you  admire 
her?" 

"Under  our  circumstances,  yes." 

He  twisted  himself  around  in  the  seat  and  sat 
looking  at  her. 

•'The  loveliest  mouth  in  the  world?"  he  said,  and 
kissed  her  suddenly. 

She  had  expected  it  for  at  least  a  week,  but  her 
surprise  was  well  done.  Well  done  also  was  her 
silence  during  the  homeward  ride. 

No,  she  was  not  angry,  she  said.  It  was  only  thai 
e  had  set  her  thinking.  When  she  got  out  of  the  car 
she  bade  him  good-night  and  good-bye.    He  onh 
laughed. 

44  Don't  you  trust  me?  "  he  said,  leaning  out  to  her 

She  raised  her  dark  eyes. 

44  It  is  not  that.    I  do  not  trust  myself." 

After  that  nothing  could  have  kept  him  away,  anc 
she  knew  it. 

"Man  demands  both  danger  and  play;  therefore 
he  selects  woman  as  the  most  dangerous  of  toys."  A 
spice  of  danger  had  entered  into  their  relationship 
It  had  become  infinitely  piquant. 

He  motored  out  to  the  farm  the  next  day,  tc  be 
told  that  Miss  Harrison  had  gone  for  a  long  walk 
and  had  not  said  when  she  would  be  back.  That 
pleased  him.  Evidently  she  was  frightened.  Every 
man  likes  to  think  that  he  is  a  bit  of  a  devil.  F> 

170 


Max  settled  his  tie,  and,  leaving  his  car  outside  the 
whitewashed  fence,  departed  blithely  on  foot  in  the 
direction  Carlotta  had  taken. 

She  knew  her  man,  of  course.  He  found  her,  face 
down,  under  a  tree,  looking  pale  and  worn  and  bear- 
ing all  the  evidence  of  a  severe  mental  struggle.  She 
rose  in  confusion  when  she  heard  his  step,  and  re- 
treated a  foot  or  two,  with  her  hands  out  before  her. 

"How  dare  you?"  she  cried.  "How  dare  you 
follow  me!  I  —  I  have  got  to  have  a  little  time 
alone.  I  have  got  to  think  things  out." 

He  knew  it  was  play-acting,  but  rather  liked  it^ 
and,  because  he  was  quite  as  skillful  as  she  was,  he 
struck  a  match  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree  and  lighted 
a  cigarette  before  he  answered. 

"  I  was  afraid  of  this,"  he  said,  playing  up.  "You 
take  it  entirely  too  hard.  I  am  not  really  a  villain, 
Carlotta." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  used  her  name. 

"Sit  down  and  let  us  talk  things  over." 

She  sat  down  at  a  safe  distance,  and  looked  across 
the  little  clearing  to  him  with  the  somber  eyes  that 
were  her  great  asset. 

"You  can  afford  to  be  very  calm,"  she  said,  "be- 
cause this  is  only  play  to  you.  I  know  it.  I  Ve  known 
it  all  along,  I  'm  a  good  listener  and  not  —  unattrac- 
tive. But  what  is  play  for  you  is  not  necessarily 
play  for  me.  I  am  going  away  from  here." 

For  the  first  time,  he  found  himself  believing  in 
her  sincerity.  Why,  the  girl  was  white.  He  did  n't 

171 


want  to  hurt  her.  If  she  cried  —  he  was  at  the  mercy 
of  any  woman  who  cried. 

"'Give  up  your  training?" 

•'What  else  can  I  do?  This  sort  of  thing  cannot 
go  on,  Dr.  Max." 

She  did  cry  then  — •  real  tears;  and  he  went  ovei 
beside  her  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

" Don't  do  that,"  he  said.  "Please  don't  do  that. 
You  make  me  feel  like  a  scoundrel,  und  I  've  only 
been  taking  a  little  bit  of  happiness.  That's  all. 
I  swear  it." 

She  lifted  her  head  from  his  shoulder. 

"You  mean  you  are  happy  with  me?" 

"Very,  very  happy,"  said  Dr.  Max,  and  kissed 
her  again  on  the  lips. 

The  one  element  Carlotta  had  left  out  of  her  cal- 
culations was  herself.  She  had  known  the  man,  had 
taken  the  situation  at  its  proper  value.  But  she 
had  left  out  this  important  factor  in  the  equation, 
—  that  factor  which  in  every  relationship  between 
man  and  woman  determines  the  equation,  —  the 
woman. 

Into  her  calculating  ambition  had  come  a  new  and 
destroying  element.  She  who,  like  K.  in  his  little 
room  on  the  Street,  had  put  aside  love  and  the  things 
thereof,  found  that  it  would  not  be  put  aside.  By 
the  end  of  her  short  vacation  Carlotta  Harrison  was 
wildly  in  love  with  the  younger  Wilson. 

They  continued  to  meet,  not  as  often  as  beforet 
but  once  a  week,  perhaps.  The  meetings  were  full 

172 


K 


of  danger  now;  and  if  for  the  girl  they  lost  by  this 
quality,  they  gained  attraction  for  the  man.  She 
was  shrewd  enough  to  realize  her  own  situation.  The 
thing  had  gone  wrong.  She  cared,  and  he  did  not. 
It  was  his  game  now,  not  hers. 

All  women  are  intuitive;  women  in  love  are  dan- 
gerously so.  As  well  as  she  knew  that  his  passion  for 
her  was  not  the  real  thing,  so  also  she  realized  that 
there  was  growing  up  in  his  heart  something  akin 
to  the  real  thing  for  Sidney  Page.  Suspicion  became 
certainty  after  a  talk  they  had  over  the  supper- 
table  at  a  country  road-house  the  day  after  Chris- 
tine's wedding. 

"How  was  the  wedding  —  tiresome?"  she  asked. 

"Thrilling!  There's  always  something  thrilling 
to  me  in  a  man  tying  himself  up  for  life  to  one  woman. 
It's  —  it's  so  reckless." 

Her  eyes  narrowed.  "That 's  not  exactly  the  Law 
and  the  Prophets,  is  it?" 

"It's  the  truth.  To  think  of  selecting  out  of  all 
the  world  one  woman,  and  electing  to  spend  the  rest 
of  one's  days  with  her!  Although  — " 

His  eyes  looked  past  Carlotta  into  distance. 

"Sidney  Page  was  one  of  the  bridesmaids,"  he 
said  irrelevantly.  "She  was  lovelier  than  the  bride." 

"Pretty,  but  stupid,"  said  Carlotta.  "I  like  her. 
I  Ve  really  tried  to  teach  her  things,  but  —  you 
know  — •  "  She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

Dr.  Max  was  learning  wisdom.  If  there  was  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  he  veiled  it  discreetly.  But,  once 

17.3 


again  in  the  machine,  he  bent  over  and  put  his  cheek 
against  hers. 

"You  little  cat!  You're  jealous,"  he  said  exult- 
antly. 

Nevertheless,  although  he  might  smile,  the  image 
of  Sidney  lay  very  close  to  his  heart  those  autumn 
days.  And  Carlotta  knew  it. 

Sidney  came  off  night  duty  the  middle  of  No- 
vember. The  night  duty  had  been  a  time  of  com- 
parative peace  to  Carlotta.  There  were  no  evenings 
when  Dr.  Max  could  bring  Sidney  back  to  the  hos- 
pital in  his  car. 

Sidney's  half-days  at  home  were  occasions  for 
agonies  of  jealousy  on  Carlo tta's  part.  On  such  an 
occasion,  a  month  after  the  wedding,  she  could  not 
contain  herself.  She  pleaded  her  old  excuse  of  head- 
ache, and  took  the  trolley  to  a  point  near  the  end 
of  the  Street.  After  twilight  fell,  she  slowly  walked 
the  length  of  the  Street.  Christine  and  Palmer  had 
not  returned  from  their  wedding  journey.  The  No- 
vember evening  was  not  cold,  and  on  the  little  bal- 
cony sat  Sidney  and  Dr.  Max.  K.  was  there,  too, 
had  she  only  known  it,  sitting  back  in  the  shadow 
and  saying  little,  his  steady  eyes  on  Sidney's  pro- 
file. 

But  this  Carlotta  did  not  know.  She  went  on 
down  the  Street  in  a  frenzy  of  jealous  anger. 

After  that  two  ideas  ran  concurrent  in  Carlotta's 
mind:  one  was  to  get  Sidney  out  of  the  way  thf 

174 


other  was  to  make  Wilson  propose  to  her.  In  her 
heart  she  knew  that  on  the  first  depended  the  sec- 
ond. 

A  week  later  she  made  the  same  frantic  excursion, 
but  with  a  different  result.  Sidney  was  not  in  sight, 
or  Wilson.  But  standing  on  the  wooden  doorstep  of 
the  little  house  was  Le  Moyne.  The  ailanthus  trees 
were  bare  at  that  time,  throwing  gaunt  arms  up- 
ward to  the  November  sky.  The  street-lamp,  which 
in  the  summer  left  the  doorstep  in  the  shadow,  now 
shone  through  the  branches  and  threw  into  strong 
relief  Le  Moyne's  tall  figure  and  set  face.  Carlotta 
saw  him  too  late  to  retreat.  But  he  did  not  see  her. 
She  went  on,  startled,  her  busy  brain  scheming 
anew.  Another  element  had  entered  into  her  plot- 
ting. It  was  the  first  time  she  had  known  that  K. 
lived  in  the  Page  house.  It  gave  her  a  sense  of  un- 
certainty and  deadly  fear. 

She  made  her  first  friendly  overture  of  many  days 
to  Sidney  the  following  day.  They  met  in  the  locker- 
room  in  the  basement  where  the  street  clothing  for 
the  ward  patients  was  kept.  Here,  rolled  in  bundles 
and  ticketed,  side  by  side  lay  the  heterogeneous 
garments  in  which  the  patients  had  met  accident 
or  illness.  Rags  and  tidiness,  filth  and  cleanliness, 
lay  almost  touching. 

Far  away  on  the  other  side  of  the  white-washed 
basement,  men  were  unloading  gleaming  cans  of 
milk.  Floods  of  sunlight  came  down  the  cellar- 
way,  touching  their  white  coats  and  turning  the 

175 


cans  to  silver.    Everywhere  was  the  religion  of  tlie 
hospital,  which  is  order. 

Sidney,  harking  back  from  recent  slights  to  the 
staircase  conversations  of  her  night  duty,  smiled  at 
Carlotta  cheerfully. 

"A  miracle  is  happening,"  she  said.  "Grace 
Irving  is  going  out  to-day.  When  one  remembers 
how  ill  she  was  and  how  we  thought  she  could  not 
live,  it's  rather  a  triumph,  is  n't  it?" 

"Are  those  her  clothes?" 

Sidney  examined  with  some  dismay  the  elaborate 
negligee  garments  in  her  hand. 

"She  can't  go  out  in  those;  I  shall  have  to  len^ 
her  something."  A  little  of  the  light  died  out  of  her 
face.  "She 's  had  a  hard  fight,  and  she  has  won,"  she 
said.  "But  when  I  think  of  what  she's  probably 
going  back  to  — " 

Carlotta  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  It's  all  in  the  day's  work,"  she  observed  indiffer- 
ently. "You  can  take  them  up  into  the  kitchen  and 
give  them  steady  work  paring  potatoes,  or  put  them 
in  the  laundry  ironing.  In  the  end  it's  the  same 
thing.  They  all  go  back." 

She  drew  a  package  from  the  locker  and  looked  at 
it  ruefully. 

"Well,  what  do  you  know  about  this?  Here's  a 
woman  who  came  in  in  a  nightgown  and  pair  of  slip- 
pers. And  now  she  wants  to  go  out  in  half  an  hour ! ' ' 

She  turned,  on  her  way  cut  of  the  locker-room,  and 
a  quick  glance  at  Sidney. 
176 


"  I  happened  to  be  on  your  street  the  other  night,w 
she  said.  "  You  live  across  the  street  from  Wilsons', 
don't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  thought  so ;  I  had  heard  you  speak  of  the  houseG 
Your  —  your  brother  was  standing  on  the  steps." 

Sidney  laughed. 

"I  have  no  brother.  That's  a  roomer,  a  Mr.  Le 
Moyne.  It  is  n't  really  right  to  call  him  a  roomer; 
he's  one  of  the  family  now." 

"Le  Moyne!" 

He  had  even  taken  another  name.  It  had  hit  him 
hard,  for  sure. 

K.'s  name  had  struck  an  always  responsive  chord 
in  Sidney.  The  two  girls  went  toward  the  elevator 
together.  With  a  very  little  encouragement,  Sidney 
talked  of  K.  She  was  pleased  at  Miss  Harrison's 
friendly  tone,  glad  that  things  were  all  right  between 
them  again.  At  her  floor,  she  put  a  timid  hand  on  the 
girl's  arm. 

"I  was  afraid  I  had  offended  you  or  displeased 
you,"  she  said.  "  I  'm  so  glad  it  is  n't  so." 

Carlotta  shivered  under  her  hand. 

Things  were  not  going  any  too  well  with  K.  True,, 
he  had  received  his  promotion  at  the  office,  and  with 
this  present  affluence  of  twenty-two  dollars  a  week 
he  was  able  to  do  several  things.  Mrs.  Rosenfeld 
now  washed  and  ironed  one  day  a  week  at  the  little 
house, 'so  that  Katie  might  have  more  time  to  look 

177 


after  Anna.    He  had  increased  also  the  amount  of 
money  that  he  periodically  sent  East. 

So  far,  well  enough.  The  thing  that  rankled  and 
filled  him  with  a  sense  of  failure  was  Max  Wilson's 
attitude.  It  was  not  unfriendly;  it  was,  indeed,  con- 
sistently respectful,  almost  reverential.  But  he 
clearly  considered  Le  Moyne's  position  absurd. 

There  was  no  true  comradeship  between  the  two 
men ;  but  there  was  beginning  to  be  constant  associa- 
tion, and  lately  a  certain  amount  of  friction.  They 
thought  differently  about  almost  everything. 

Wilson  began  to  bring  all  his  problems  to  Le 
Moyne.  There  were  long  consultations  in  that  small 
upper  room.  Perhaps  more  than  one  man  or  woman 
who  did  not  know  of  K.'s  existence  owed  his  life  to 
him  that  fall. 

Under  K.'s  direction,  Max  did  marvels.  Cases 
began  to  come  in  to  him  from  the  surrounding  towns. 
To  his  own  daring  was  added  a  new  and  remark- 
able technique.  But  Le  Moyne,  who  had  found  re- 
signation if  not  content,  was  once  again  in  touch 
with  the  work  he  loved.  There  were  times  when, 
having  thrashed  a  case  out  together  and  outlined 
the  next  day's  work  for  Max,  he  would  walk  for 
hours  into  the  night  out  over  the  hills,  fighting  his 
battle.  The  longing  was  on  him  to  be  in  the  thick  of 
things  again.  The  thought  of  the  gas  office  and  its 
deadly  round  sickened  him. 

It  was  on  one  of  his  long  walks  that  K.  found 
Tillie. 

178 


It  was  December  then,  gray  and  raw,  with  a  wet 
snow  that  changed  to  rain  as  it  fell.  The  country 
roads  were  ankle-deep  with  mud,  the  wayside  paths 
thick  with  sodden  leaves.  The  dreariness  of  the 
countryside  that  Saturday  afternoon  suited  his 
mood.  He  had  ridden  to  the  end  of  the  street-car 
line,  and  started  his  walk  from  there.  As  was  his 
custom,  he  wore  no  overcoat,  but  a  short  sweater 
under  his  coat.  Somewhere  along  the  road  he  had 
picked  up  a  mongrel  dog,  and,  as  if  in  sheer  desire 
for  human  society,  it  trotted  companionably  at  his 
heels. 

Seven  miles  from  the  end  of  the  car  line  he  found 
a  road-house,  and  stopped  in  for  a  glass  of  Scotch. 
He  was  chilled  through.  The  dog  went  in  with  him. 
and  stood  looking  up  into  his  face.  It  was  as  if  he 
submitted,  but  wondered  why  this  indoors,  with 
the  scents  of  the  road  ahead  and  the  trails  of  rabbits 
over  the  fields. 

The  house  was  set  in  a  valley  at  the  foot  of  two 
hills.  Through  the  mist  of  the  December  afternoon, 
it  had  loomed  pleasantly  before  him.  The  door  was 
ajar,  and  he  stepped  into  a  little  hall  covered  with 
ingrain  carpet.  To  the  right  was  the  dining-room, 
the  table  covered  with  a  white  cloth,  and  in  its  exact 
center  an  uncompromising  bunch  of  dried  flowers. 
To  the  left,  the  typical  parlor  of  such  places.  It 
might  have  been  the  parlor  of  the  White  Springs 
Hotel  in  duplicate,  plush  self-rocker  and  all.  Over 
everything  was  silence  and  a  pervading  smeli  of 

179 


K. 


$resh  varnish.  The  house  was  aggressive  with  ne\v 
paint  —  the  sagging  old  floors  shone  with  it,  the 
doors  gleamed. 

"Hello!"  called  K. 

There  were  slow  footsteps  upstairs,  the  closing 
of  a  bureau  drawer,  the  rustle  of  a  woman's  dress 
coming  down  the  stairs.  K.,  standing  uncertainly 
on  a  carpet  oasis  that  was  the  center  of  the  parlor 
varnish,  stripped  off  his  sweater, 

"Not  very  busy  here  this  afternoon!"  he  said  to 
the  unseen  female  on  the  staircase.  Then  he  saw 
her.  It  was  Tillie.  She  put  a  hand  against  the  door- 
frame to  steady  herself.  Tillie  surely,  but  a  new 
Tillie!  With  her  hair  loosened  around  her  face,  a 
fresh  blue  chintz  dress  open  at  the  throat,  a  black 
velvet  bow  on  her  breast,  here  was  a  Tillie  fuller, 
infinitely  more  attractive,  than  he  had  remembered 
her.  But  she  did  not  smile  at  him.  There  was  some- 
thing about  her  eyes  not  unlike  the  dog's  expression, 
submissive,  but  questioning. 

"Well,  you've  found  me,  Mr.  Le  Moyne."  And, 
when  he  held  out  his  hand,  smiling:  "  I  just  had  to 
do  it,  Mr.  K." 

"And  how's  everything  going?  You  look  mighty 
£ne  and  —  happy,  Tillie." 

'  I  'm  all  right.  Mr.  Schwitter  's  gone  to  the  post- 
office.  He'll  be  back  at  five.  Will  you  have  a  cup 
of  tea,  or  will  you  have  something  else?" 

The  instinct  of  the  Street  was  still  strong  in  Tillie 
The  Street  did  not  approve  of  "something  else." 


"Scotch-and-soda,"  said  Le  Moyne.  "And  shah 
1  buy  a  ticket  for  you  to  punch?" 

But  she  only  smiled  faintly.  He  was  sorry  he 
had  made  the  blunder.  Evidently  the  Street  and  all 
that  pertained  was  a  sore  subject. 

So  this  was  Tillie's  new  home !  It  was  for  this  that 
she  had  exchanged  the  virginal  integrity  of  her  life 
at  Mrs.  McKee's  —  for  this  wind-swept  little  house, 
tidily  ugly,  infinitely  lonely.  There  were  two  crayon 
enlargements  over  the  mantel.  One  was  Sch witter, 
evidently.  The  other  was  the  paper-doll  wife.  K. 
wondered  what  curious  instinct  of  self-abnegation 
had  caused  Tillie  to  leave  the  wife  there  undisturbed. 
Back  of  its  position  of  honor  he  saw  the  girl's  reali- 
zation of  her  own  situation.  On  a  wooden  shelf, 
exactly  between  the  two  pictures,  was  another  vase 
of  dried  flowers. 

Tillie  brought  the  Scotch,  already  mixed,  in  a 
tall  glass.  K.  would  have  preferred  to  mix  it  himself, 
but  the  Scotch  was  good.  He  felt  a  new  respect  for 
Mr.  Schwitter. 

"You  gave  me  a  turn  at  first,"  said  Tillie.  "But 
I  am  right  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Le  Moyne.  Now 
that  the  roads  are  bad,  nobody  comes  very  much. 
It's  lonely." 

Until  now,  K.  and  Tillie,  when  they  metr  had 
met  conversationally  on  the  common  ground  of 
food.  They  no  longer  had  that,  and  between  them 
both  lay  like  a  barrier  their  last  conversation. 

"Are  you  happy,  Tillie?"  said  K.  suddenly 
181 


*  I  expected  you  'd  ask  me  that.  I  've  been  think- 
ing what  to  say." 

Her  reply  set  him  watching  her  face.  More  at- 
tractive it  certainly  was,  but  happy?  There  was  a 
wistfulness  about  Tillie's  mouth  that  set  him  won- 
dering. 

" Is  he  good  to  you?" 

"He's  about  the  best  man  on  earth.  He's  never 
said  a  cross  word  to  me  —  even  at  first,  when  I  was 
panicky  and  scared  at  every  sound." 

Le  Moyne  nodded  understandingly. 

"  I  burned  a  lot  of  victuals  when  I  first  came,  run- 
ning off  and  hiding  when  I  heard  people  around  the 
place.  It  used  to  seem  to  me  that  what  I'd  done 
was  written  on  my  face.  But  he  never  said  a 
word." 

"That's  over  now?" 

"  I  don't  run.    I  am  still  frightened." 

"Then  it  has  been  worth  while?" 

Tillie  glanced  up  at  the  two  pictures  over  the 
mantel. 

"Sometimes  it  is  —  when  he  comes  in  tired,  and 
I've  a  chicken  ready  or  some  fried  ham  and  eggs 
for  his  supper,  and  I  see  him  begin  to  look  rested. 
He  lights  his  pipe,  and  many  an  evening  he  helps 
me  with  the  dishes.  He's  happy;  he's  getting" 
fat." 

"But  you?"  Le  Moyne  persisted. 

"  I  would  n't  go  back  to  where  I  was,  but  I  am  no! 
happy,  Mr.  Le  Moyne.  There 's  no  use  pretending. 

182 


I  want  a  baby.  All  along  I  Ve  wanted  a  baby.  Ha 
wants  one.  This  place  is  his,  and  he  'd  like  a  boy  to 
come  into  it  when  he's  gone.  But,  my  God!  if  I 
did  have  one,  what  would  it  be?" 

K.'s  eyes  followed  hers  to  the  picture  and  the  ever- 
lastings underneath. 

"And  she  —  there  is  n't  any  prospect  of  her  — ?" 

"No." 

There  was  no  solution  to  Tillie's  problem.  Le 
Moyne,  standing  on  the  hearth  and  looking  down  at 
her,  realized  that,  after  all,  Tillie  must  work  out  her 
own  salvation.  He  could  offer  her  no  comfort. 

They  talked  far  into  the  growing  twilight  of  the 
afternoon.  Tillie  was  hungry  for  news  of  the  Street: 
must  know  of  Christine's  wedding,  of  Harriet,  of 
Sidney  in  her  hospital.  And  when  he  had  told  her 
all,  she  sat  sifent,  rolling  her  handkerchief  in  her 
fingers.  Then:  — 

"Take  the  four  of  us,"  she  said  suddenly,  - 
"Christine  Lorenz  and  Sidney  Page  and  Miss  Har- 
riet and  me,  —  and  which  one  would  you  have  picked 
to  go  wrong  like  this?  I  guess,  from  the  looks  of 
things,  most  folks  would  have  thought  it  would  be 
the  Lorenz  girl.  They'd  have  picked  Harriet  Ken- 
nedy for  the  hospital,  and  me  for  the  dressmaking, 
and  it  would  have  been  Sidney  Page  that  got  mar- 
ried and  had  an  automobile.  Well,  that's  life." 

She  looked  up  at  K.  shrewdly. 

"There  were  some  people  out  here  lately.  They 
did  n't  know  me,  and  I  heard  them  talking.  They 


said  Sidney  Page  was  going  to  marry  Dr.  Max 
Wilson." 

"  Possibly.  I  believe  there  is  no  engagement  yet." 

He  had  finished  with  his  glass.  Tillie  rose  to  take 
it  away.  As  she  stood  before  him  she  looked  up  into 
his  face. 

"  If  you  like  her  as  well  as  I  think  you  do,  Mr.  Le 
Moyne,  you  won't  let  him  get  her." 

"I  am  afraid  that's  not  up  to  me,  is  it?  What 
would  I  do  with  a  wife,  Tillie?" 

"  You'd  be  faithful  to  her.  That's  more  than  he 
would  be.  I  guess,  in  the  long  run,  that  would  count 
more  than  money." 

That  was  what  K.  took  home  with  i^m  after  his 
encounter  with  Tillie.  He  pondered  it  on  his  way 
back  to  the  street-car,  as  he  struggled  against  the 
wind.  The  weather  had  changed.  Wagon- tracks 
along  the  road  were  filled  with  water  and  had  begun 
to  freeze.  The  rain  had  turned  to  a  driving  sleet 
that  cut  his  face.  Halfway  to  the  trolley  line,  the 
dog  turned  off  into  a  by-road.  K.  did  not  miss  him. 
The  dog  stared  after  him,  one  foot  raised.  Once 
again  his  eyes  were  like  Tillie's,  as  she  had  waved 
good-bye  from  the  porch. 

His  head  sunk  on  his  breast,  K.  covered  miles  of 
road  with  his  long,  swinging  pace,  and  fought  his 
battle.  Was  Tillie  right,  after  all,  and  had  he  been 
wrong?  Why  should  he  efface  himself,  if  it  meant 
Sidney's  unhappiness?  Why  not  accept  Wilson's 
offer  and  start  over  again?  Then  if  things  went 

184 


well  —  the  temptation  was  strong  that  stormy 
afternoon.  He  put  it  from  him  at  last,  because  of 
the  conviction  that  whatever  he  did  would  make  no 
change  in  Sidney's  ultimate  decision.  If  she  cared 
enough  for  Wilson,  she  would  marry  him.  He  foli 
that  she  cared  enough. 


CHAPTER  XV 

PALMER  and  Christine  returned  from  their  wedding 
trip  the  day  K.  discovered  Tillie.  Anna  Page  made 
much  of  the  arrival,  insisted  on  dinner  for  them  that 
night  at  the  little  house,  must  help  Christine  un- 
pack her  trunks  and  arrange  her  wedding  gifts  about 
the  apartment.  She  was  brighter  than  she  had  been 
for  days,  more  interested.  The  wonders  of  the 
trousseau  filled  her  with  admiration  and  a  sort  of 
jealous  envy  for  Sidney,  who  could  have  none  of 
these  things.  In  a  pathetic  sort  of  way,  she  mothered 
Christine  in  lieu  of  her  own  daughter. 

And  it  was  her  quick  eye  that  discerned  something 
wrong.  Christine  was  not  quite  happy.  Under  her 
excitement  was  an  undercurrent  of  reserve.  Anna, 
rich  in  maternity  if  in  nothing  else,  felt  it,  and  in 
reply  to  some  speech  of  Christine's  that  struck  her 
as  hard,  not  quite  fitting,  she  gave  her  a  gentle 
admonishing. 

"Married  life  takes  a  little  adjusting,  my  dear," 
she  said.  "After  we  have  lived  to  ourselves  for  a 
number  of  years,  it  is  not  easy  to  live  for  some  one 
else." 

Christine  straightened  from  the  tea-table  she  was 
arranging. 

"That's  true,  of  course.  But  why  should  the 
woman  do  all  the  adjusting?  " 

1 86 


"Men  are  more  set,"  said  poor  Anna,  who  had* 
never  been  set  in  anything  in  her  life.   "  It  is  harder 
for  them  to  give  in.  And,  of  course,  Palmer  is  older, 
and  his  habits  — " 

"The  less  said  about  Palmer's  habits  the  better,9' 
flashed  Christine.  "I  appear  to  have  married  a 
bunch  of  habits." 

She  gave  over  her  unpacking,  and  sat  down  list- 
lessly by  the  fire,  wmie  Anna  moved  about,  busy 
with  the  small  activities  that  delighted  her. 

Six  weeks  of  Palmer's  society  in  unlimited  amounts 
had  bored  Christine  to  distraction.  She  sat  with, 
folded  hands  and  looked  into  a  future  that  seemed 
to  include  nothing  but  Palmer:  Palmer  asleep  with 
his  mouth  open;  Palmer  shaving  before  breakfast, 
and  irritable  until  he  had  had  his  coffee;  Palmer 
yawning  over  the  newspaper. 

And  there  was  a  darker  side  to  the  picture  than 
that.  There  was  a  vision  of  Palmer  slipping  quietly 
into  his  room  and  falling  into  the  heavy  sleep,  not 
of  drunkenness  perhaps,  but  of  drink.  That  had 
happened  twice.  She  knew  now  that  it  would  hap- 
pen again  and  again,  as  long  as  he  lived.  Drink- 
ing leads  to  other  things.  The  letter  she  had  re« 
ceived  on  her  wedding  day  was  burned  into  her 
brain.  There  would  be  that  in  the  future  too, 
probably. 

Christine  was  not  without  courage.  She  was 
making  a  brave  clutch  at  happiness.  But  that  after- 
noon of  the  first  day  at  home  she  was  terrified.  She 

187 


K 


was  glad  when  Anna  went  and  left  her  alone  by  her 
fire. 

But  when  she  heard  a  step  in  the  hall,  she  opened 
the  door  herself.  She  had  determined  to  meet 
Palmer  with  a  smile.  Tears  brought  nothing;  she 
had  learned  that  already.  Men  liked  smiling  women 
and  good  cheer.  "Daughters  of  joy,"  they  called 
girls  like  the  one  on  the  Avenue.  So  she  opened  the 
door  smiling. 

But  it  was  K.  in  the  hall.  She  waited  while,  with 
his  back  to  her,  he  shook  himself  like  a  great  dog. 
When  he  turned,  she  was  watching  him. 

"You!"  said  Le  Moyne.   "Why,  welcome  home.n 

He  smiled  down  at  her,  his  kindly  eyes  lighting. 

"It's  good  to  be  home  and  to  see  you  again. 
Won't  you  come  in  to  my  fire?" 

"I'm  wet." 

"All  the  more  reason  why  you  should  come,"  she 
cried  gayly,  and  held  the  door  wide. 

The  little  parlor  was  cheerful  with  fire  and  soft 
lamps,  bright  with  silver  vases  full  of  flowers.  K. 
stepped  inside  and  took  a  critical  survey  of  the 
room. 

"Well!"  he  said.  "Between  us  we  have  made  a 
pretty  good  job  of  this,  I  with  the  paper  and  the 
wiring,  and  you  with  your  pretty  furnishings  and 
your  pretty  self." 

He  glanced  at  her  appreciatively.  Christine  saw 
his  approval,  and  was  happier  than  she  had  been  tor 
•Creeks.  She  put  on  the  thousand  little  airs  and  graces 

1 88 


that  were  a  part  of  her  —  held  her  chin  high,  looked 
up  at  him  with  the  little  appealing  glances  that  she 
had  found  were  wasted  on  Palmer.  She  lighted  the 
spirit-lamp  to  make  tea,  drew  out  the  best  chair 
for  him,  and  patted  a  cushion  with  her  well-cared-for 
hands. 

"A  big  chair  for  a  big  man!"  she  said.  "And  see, 
here's  a  footstool." 

"  I  am  ridiculously  fond  of  being  babied,"  said  K., 
and  quite  basked  in  his  new  atmosphere  of  well- 
being.  This  was  better  than  his  empty  room  up- 
stairs, than  tramping  along  country  roads,  than  his 
own  thoughts. 

"And  now,  how  is  everything?"  asked  Christine 
from  across  the  fire.  "  Do  tell  me  all  the  scandal  of 
the  Street." 

"There  has  been  no  scandal  since  you  wenr. 
away,"  said  K.  And,  because  each  was  glad  not  to 
be  left  to  his  own  thoughts,  they  laughed  at  this  bit 
of  unconscious  humor. 

"Seriously,"  said  Le  Moyne,  "we  have  been  very 
quiet.  I  have  had  my  salary  raised  and  am  now  re- 
joicing in  twenty-two  dollars  a  week.  I  am  still  not 
accustomed  to  it.  Just  when  I  had  all  my  ideas 
fixed  for  fifteen,  I  get  twenty- two  and  have  to  re- 
assemble them.  I  am  disgustingly  rich." 

"It  is  very  disagreeable  when  one's  income  be- 
comes a  burden,"  said  Christine  gravely. 

She  was  finding  in  Le  Moyne  something  that 
she  needed  just  then  —  a  solidity,  a  sort  of  dependa- 

i8q 


oility,  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  heaviness.  She 
felt  that  here  was  a  man  she  could  trust,  almost  con- 
fide in.  She  liked  his  long  hands,  his  shabby  but 
well-cut  clothes,  his  fine  profile  with  its  strong  chin. 
She  left  off  her  little  affectations,  —  a  tribute  to  his 
own  lack  of  them,  —  and  sat  back  in  her  chair, 
watching  the  fire. 

When  K.  chose,  he  could  talk  well.  The  Howes 
had  been  to  Bermuda  on  their  wedding  trip.  He 
knew  Bermuda;  that  gave  them  a  common  ground. 
Christine  relaxed  under  his  steady  voice.  As  for  K.r 
he  frankly  enjoyed  the  little  visit  —  drew  himself  at 
last  with  regret  out  of  his  chair. 

"  You  Ve  been  very  nice  to  ask  me  in,  Mrs.  Howe," 
he  said.  "  I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  come  again. 
T3ut,  of  course,  you  are  going  to  be  very  gay." 

It  seemed  to  Christine  she  would  never  be  gay 
again.  She  did  not  want  him  to  go  away.  The  sound 
of  his  deep  voice  gave  her  a  sense  of  security.  She 
liked  the  clasp  of  the  hand  he  held  out  to  her,  when 
at  last  he  made  a  move  toward  the  door. 

"Tell  Mr.  Howe  I  am  sorry  he  missed  our  little 
party,"  said  Le  Moyne.  "And  —  thank  you." 

"Will  you  come  again?"  asked  Christine  rathef 
wistfully. 

"Just  as  often  as  you  ask  me." 

As  he  closed  the  door  behind  him,  there  was  a 
new  light  in  Christine's  eyes.  Things  were  not  right, 
but,  after  all,  they  were  not  hopeless.  One  might 
•still  have  friends,  big  and  strong,  steady  of  eye  and 


voice.     When   Palmer  came  home,  the  smile  she 
gave  him  was  not  forced. 

The  day's  exertion  had  been  bad  for  Anna.  Le 
Moyne  found  her  on  the  couch  in  the  transformed 
sewing- room,  and  gave  her  a  quick  glance  of  appre- 
hension. She  was  propped  up  high  with  pillows,  with 
a  bottle  of  aromatic  ammonia  beside  her. 

"Just  —  short  of  breath,"  she  panted.  "I  —  I 
must  get  down.  Sidney  —  is  coming  borne  —  to 
supper;  and  —  the  others  —  Palmer  and  — " 

That  was  as  far  as  she  got.  K.,  watch  in  hand, 
tound  her  pulse  thin,  stringy,  irregular.  He  had 
been  prepared  for  some  such  emergency,  and  he  hur- 
ried into  his  room  for  amyl-nitrate.  When  lie  came 
back  che  was  almost  unconscious.  There  was  no 
time  even  to  call  Katie.  He  broke  the  capsule  in  a 
towel,  and  held  it  over  her  face.  After  a  time  the 
-spasm  relaxed,  but  her  condition  remained  alarming. 

Harriet,  who  had  come  home  by  that  time,  sat 
by  the  couch  and  held  her  sister's  hand.  Only  once 
in  the  next  hour  or  so  did  she  speak.  They  had  sent 
for  Dr.  Ed,  but  he  had  not  come  yet.  Harriet  was 
too  wretched  to  notice  the  professional  manner  in 
which  K.  set  to  work  over  Anna. 

"I've  been  a  very  hard  sister  to  her,"  she  said. 
"  If  you  can  pull  lier  through,  I  '11  try  to  make  up 
for  it." 

Christine  sat  on  ihe  stairs  outside,  frightened  and 
helpless.  They  had  sent  for  Sidney;  but  the  little 

IQI 


house  had  no  telephone,  and  the  message  was  slow 
in  getting  off. 

At  six  o'clock  Dr.  Ed  came  panting  up  the  stairs 
and  into  the  room.  K.  stood  back. 

"Well,  this  is  sad,  Harriet,"  said  Dr.  Ed.  "Why  in 
the  name  of  Heaven,  when  I  was  n't  around,  did  n't 
you  get  another  doctor.  If  she  had  had  some  amyl- 
nitrate  — •" 

"I  gave  her  some  nitrate  of  amyl,"  said  K. 
quietly.  "There  was  really  no  time  to  send  for 
anybody.  She  almost  went  under  at  half-past  five." 

Max  had  kept  his  word,  and  even  Dr.  Ed  did  not 
suspect  K.'s  secret.  He  gave  a  quick  glance  at  this 
tall  young  man  who  spoke  so  quietly  of  what  he  had 
dp^.e  for  the  sick  woman,  and  went  on  with  his  work. 

Sidney  arrived  a  little  after  six,  and  from  thai 
moment  the  confusion  in  the  sick-room  was  at  an 
end.  She  moved  Christine  from  the  stairs,  where 
Katie  on  her  numerous  errands  must  crawl  over  her; 
set  Harriet  to  warming  her  mother's  bed  and  getting 
it  ready ;  opened  windows,  brought  order  and  quiet. 
And  then,  with  death  in  her  eyes,  she  took  UD  her 
position  beside  her  mother.  This  was  no  time  for 
weeping;  that  would  come  later.  Once  she  turned  to 
K.,  standing  watchfully  beside  her. 

"I  think  you  have  known  this  for  a  long  time," 
she  said.  And,  when  he  did  not  answer:  "Why  did 
you  let.  me  stay  away  from  her?  It  would  have  been 
a  little  time!" 


K 


"We  were  trying  to  do  our  best  for  both  of  you,'* 
he  replied. 

Anna  was  unconscious  and  sinking  fast.  One 
thought  obsessed  Sidney.  She  repeated  it  over  and 
over.  It  came  as  a  cry  from  the  depths  of  the  girl's 
new  experience. 

"She  has  had  so  little  of  life,"  she  said,  over  and 
over.  "So  little!  Just  this  Street.  She  never  knew 
anything  else." 

And  finally  K.  took  it  up. 

"After  all,  Sidney,"  he  said,  "the  Street  is  life:  the 
world  is  only  many  streets.  She  had  a  great  deal. 
She  had  love  and  content,  and  she  had  you." 

Anna  died  a  little  after  midnight,  a  quiet  passing, 
so  that  only  Sidney  and  the  two  men  knew  when  she 
went  away.  It  was  Harriet  who  collapsed.  During 
all  that  long  evening  she  had  sat  looking  back  over 
years  of  small  unkindnesses.  The  thorn  of  Anna's 
inefficiency  had  always  rankled  in  her  flesh.  She 
had  been  hard,  uncompromising,  thwarted.  And 
now  it  was  forever  too  late. 

K.  had  watched  Sidney  carefully.  Once  he  thought 
she  was  fainting,  and  went  to  her.  But  she  shook  her 
head. 

"  I  am  all  right.  Do  you  think  you  could  get  them 
all  out  of  the  room  and  let  me  have  her  alone  foi 
just  a  few  minutes?" 

He  cleared  the  room,  and  took  up  his  vigil  outside 
the  door.  And,  as  he  stood  there,  he  thought  of  what 
he  had  said  to  Sidney  about  the  Street.  It  was  a 


world  of  its  own.  Here  in  this  very  house  were  dt^ch 
and  separation ;  Harriet's  starved  life ;  Christine  and 
Palmer  beginning  a  long  and  doubtful  future  to- 
gether; himself,  a  failure,  and  an  impostor. 

When  he  opened  the  door  again,  Sidney  was  stand- 
ing by  her  mother's  bed.  He  went  to  her,  and  she 
turned  and  put  her  head  against  his  shoulder  like 
a  tired  child. 

"Take  me  away,  K.,"  she  said  pitifully. 

And,  with  his  arm  around  her,  he  led  her  out 
of  the  room. 

Outside  of  her  small  immediate  circle  Anna'-, 
death  was  hardly  felt.  The  little  house  went  on 
much  as  before.  Harriet  carried  back  to  her  business 
a  heaviness  of  spirit  that  made  it  difficult  to  bear 
with  the  small  irritations  of  her  day.  Perhaps  Anna's 
incapacity,  which  had  always  annoyed  her,  had 
been  physical.  She  must  have- had  her  trouble  a 
long  time.  She  remembered  other  women  of  the 
Street  who  had  crept  through  inefficient  days,  and 
iiad  at  last  laid  down  their  burdens  and  closed  their 
mild  eyes,  to  the  lasting  astonishment  of  their  fami- 
'ies.  What  did  they  think  about,  these  women,  as 
ihey  pottered  about?  Did  they  resent  the  impatience 
that  met  their  lagging  movements,  the  indifference 
that  would  not  see  how  they  were  failing?  Hot  tears 
fell  on  Harriet's  fashion-book  as  it  lay  on  her  knee, 
not  only  for  Anna  —  for  Anna's  prototype?  evervt 
where. 

194 


On  Sidney  —  and  in  less  measure,  of  course,  on 
K.  —  fell  the  real  brunt  of  the  disaster.  Sidney  kept 
up  well  until  after  the  funeral,  but  went  down  the 
next  day  with  a  low  fever. 

"Overwork  and  grief,"  Dr.  Ed  said,  and  sternly 
forbade  the  hospital  again  until  Christmas.  Morn- 
ing and  evening  K.  stopped  at  her  door  and  inquired 
for  her,  and  morning  and  evening  came  Sidney's 
reply :  — 

"  Much  better.   I  '11  surely  be  up  to-morrow." 

But  the  days  dragged  on  and  she  did  not  get 
about. 

Downstairs,  Christine  and  Palmer  had  entered  on 
the  round  of  midwinter  gayeties.  Palmer's  "crowd '* 
was  a  lively  one.  There  were  dinners  and  dances, 
week-end  excursions  to  country-houses.  The  Street 
grew  accustomed  to  seeing  automobiles  stop  before 
the  little  house  at  all  hours  of  the  night.  Johnny 
Rosenfeld,  driving  Palmer's  car,  took  to  falling 
asleep  at  the  wheel  in  broad  daylight, -and  voiced  his 
discontent  to  his  mother. 

"  You  never  know  where  you  are  with  them  guys," 
he  said  briefly.  "We  start  out  for  half  an  hour's  run 
in  the  evening,  and  get  home  with  the  milk-wagons. 
And  the  more  some  of  them  have  had  to  drink,  the 
more  they  want  to  drive  the  machine.  If  I  get  a 
chance,  I'm  going  to  beat  it  while  the  wind's  my 
way." 

But,  talk  as  he  might,  in  Johnny  Rosenfeld's 
ioyal  heart  there  was  no  thought  of  desertion. 

193 


Palmer  had  given  him  a  man's  job,  and  he  would 
stick  by  it,  no  matter  what  came. 

There  were  some  things  that  Johnny  Rosenfeld 
did  not  tell  his  mother.  There  were  evenings  when 
the  Howe  car  was  filled,  not  with  Christine  and  her 
friends,  but  with  women  of  a  different  world ;  even= 
ings  when  the  destination  was  not  a  country  estate, 
but  a  road-house ;  evenings  when  Johnny  Rosenfeld, 
ousted  from  the  driver's  seat  by  some  drunken  youth, 
would  hold  tight  to  the  swinging  car  and  say  such 
fragments  of  prayers  as  he  could  remember.  Johnny 
Rosenfeld,  who  had  started  life  with  few  illusions, 
was  in  danger  of  losing  such  as  he  had. 

One  such  night  Christine  put  in,  lying  wakefully 
in  her  bed,  while  the  clock  on  the  mantel  tolled 
hour  after  hour  into  the  night.  Palmer  did  not  come 
home  at  all.  He  sent  a  note  from  the  office  in  the 
morning:  — 

"I  hope  you  are  not  worried,  darling.  The  car 
broke  down  near  the  Country  Club  last  night,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  spend  the  night  there, 
I  would  have  sent  you  word,  but  I  did  not  want  to 
rouse  you.  What  do  you  say  to  the  theater  to-night 
and  supper  afterward?" 

Christine  was  learning.  She  telephoned  the  Coun- 
try Club  that  morning,  and  found  that  Palmer  had 
not  been  there.  But,  although  she  knew  now  that 
he  was  deceiving  her,  as  he  always  had  deceived 

196 


her,  as  probably  he  always  would,  she  hesitated  to 
confront  him  with  what  she  knew.  She  shrank,  as 
many  a  woman  has  shrunk  before,  from  confronting 
him  with  his  lie. 

But  the  second  time  it  happened,  she  was  roused, 
It  was  almost  Christmas  then,  and  Sidney  was  well 
on  the  way  to  recovery,  thinner  and  very  white, 
but  going  slowly  up  and  down  the  staircase  on  K.'s 
arm,  and  sitting  with  Harriet  and  K.  at  the  dinner- 
table.  She  was  begging  to  be  back  on  duty  for 
Christmas,  and  K.  felt  that  he  would  have  to  give 
her  up  soon. 

At  three  o'clock  one  morning  Sidney  roused  from 
a  light  sleep  to  hear  a  rapping  on  her  door. 

"Is  that  you,  Aunt  Harriet?"  she  called. 

"It's  Christine.    May  I  come  in?" 

Sidney  unlocked  her  door.  Christine  slipped  into 
the  room.  She  carried  a  candle,  and  before  she 
spoke  she  looked  at  Sidney's  watch  on  the  bedside 
table. 

"  I  hoped  my  clock  was  wrong,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
sorry  to  waken  you,  Sidney,  but  I  don't  know  what 
to  do." 

"Are  you  ill?" 

"No.   Palmer  has  not  come  home." 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"After  three  o'clock." 

Sidney  had  lighted  the  gas  and  was  throwing  on 
her  dressing-gown. 

"When  he  went  out  did  he  say  —  " 
197 


"He  said  nothing.  We  had  been  quarreling; 
Sidney,  I  am  going  home  in  the  morning." 

"You  don't  mean  that,  do  you?" 

"Don't  I  look  as  if  I  mean  it?  How  much  of 
this  sort  of  thing  is  a  woman  supposed  to  en- 
dure?" 

"Perhaps  he  has  been  delayed.  These  things 
always  seem  terrible  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  but 
by  morning  — " 

Christine  whirled  on  her. 

"This  isn't  the  first  time.  You  remember  the 
letter  I  got  on  my  wedding  day?" 

"Yes." 

"He's  gone  back  to  her." 

"Christine!  Oh,  I  am  sure  you're  wrong.  He's 
devoted  to  you.  I  don't  believe  it !" 

"Believe  it  or  not,"  said  Christine  doggedly, 
"  that 's  exactly  what  has  happened.  I  got  something 
Dut  of  that  little  rat  of  a  Rosenfeld  boy,  and  the  rest 
I  know  because  I  know  Palmer.  He 's  out  with  her 
to-night." 

The  hospital  had  taught  Sidney  one  thing:  that 
it  took  many  people  to  make  a  world,  and  that  out 
of  these  some  were  inevitably  vicious.  But  vice  had 
remained  for  her  a  clear  abstraction.  There  were 
such  people,  and  because  one  was  in  the  world  for 
service  one  cared  for  them.  Even  the  Saviour  had 
been  kind  to  the  woman  of  the  streets. 

But  here  abruptly  Sidney  found  the  great  injustice 
of  the  world  —  that  because  of  this  vice  the  good 

198 


suffer  more  than  the  wicked.  Her  young  spirit  rose 
in  hot  rebellion. 

"  It  is  n't  fair! "  she  cried.  "  It  makes  me  hate  all 
the  men  in  the  world.  Palmer  cares  for  you,  and  yet 
he  can  do  a  thing  like  this!" 

Christine  was  pacing  nervously  up  and  down  the 
room.  Mere  companionship  had  soothed  her.  She 
was  now,  on  the  surface  at  least,  less  excited  than 
Sidney. 

"They  are  not  all  like  Palmer,  thank  Heaven," 
she  said.  "There  are  decent  men.  My  father  is  one, 
and  your  K.,  here  in  the  house,  is  another." 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  Palmer  Howe  came 
nome.  Christine  met  him  in  the  lower  hall.  He 
was  rather  pale,  but  entirely  sober.  She  confronted 
him  in  her  straight  white  gown  and  waited  for  him 
to  speak. 

r  "  I  am  sorry  to  be  so  late,  Chris,"  he  said.  "The 
fact  is,  I  am  all  in.  I  was  driving  the  car  out  Seven 
Mile  Run.  We  blew  out  a  tire  and  the  thing  turned 
over." 

Christine  noticed  then  that  his  right  arm  was 
hanging  inert  by  his  side. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

YOUNG  Howe  had  been  firmly  resolved  to  give  up 
all  his  bachelor  habits  with  his  wedding  day.  In  his 
indolent,  rather  selfish  way,  Jie  was  much  in  love 
with  his  wife. 

But  with  the  inevitable  misunderstandings  of  the 
first  months  of  marriage  had  come  a  desire  to  be 
appreciated  once  again  at  his  face  value.  Grace 
had  taken  him,  not  for  what  he  was,  but  for  what  he 
seemed  to  be.  With  Christine  the  veil  was  rent. 
She  knew  him  now  —  all  his  small  indolences,  his 
affectations,  his  weaknesses.  Later  on,  like  other 
women  since  the  world  began,  she  would  learn  to 
dissemble,  to  affect  to  believe  him  what  he  was 
not. 

Grace  had  learned  this  lesson  long  ago.  It  was  the 
A  B  C  of  her  knowledge.  And  so,  back  to  Grace  six 
weeks  after  his  wedding  day  came  Palmer  Howe, 
not  with  a  suggestion  to  renew  the  old  relationship, 
but  for  comradeship. 

Christine  sulked  —  he  wanted  good  cheer;  Chris« 
tine  was  intolerant  —  he  wanted  tolerance ;  she  dis- 
approved of  him  and  showed  her  disapproval  —  he 
wanted  approval.  He  wanted  life  to  be  comfortable 
and  cheerful,  without  recriminations,  a  little  work 
and  much  play,  a  drink  when  one  was  thirsty, 
Distorted  though  it  was,  and  founded  on  a  wrong 

200 


basis,  perhaps,  deep  in  his  heart  Palmer's  only  long' 
ing  was  for  happiness;  but  this  happiness  must  be 
of  an  active  sort  —  not  content,  which  is  passive, 
but  enjoyment. 

''Come  on  out,"  he  said.  "I've  got  a  car  now. 
No  taxi  working  its  head  off  for  us.  Just  a  little  run 
over  the  country  roads,  eh?" 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  the  day  before  Christine's 
night  visit  to  Sidney.  The  office  had  been  closed, 
owing  to  a  death,  and  Palmer  was  in  possession  of  a 
holiday. 

"Come  on,"  he  coaxed.  "We'll  go  out  to  the 
Climbing  Rose  and  have  supper." 

"I  don't  want  to  go." 

"That's  not  true,  Grace,  and  you  know  it." 

"You  and  I  are  through." 

"  It's  your  doing,  not  mine.  The  roads  are  frozen 
hard ;  an  hour's  run  into  the  country  will  bring  your 
color  back." 

"Much  you  care  about  that.  Go  and  ride  with 
your  wife,"  said  the  girl,  and  flung  away  from  him. 

The  last  few  weeks  had  filled  out  her  thin  figure, 
but  she  still  bore  traces  of  her  illness.  Her  short  hair 
ivas  curled  over  her  head.  She  looked  curiously 
boyish,  almost  sexless. 

Because  she  saw  him  wince  when  she  mentioned 
Christine,  her  ill  temper  increased.  She  showed  her 
teeth. 

"You  get  out  of  here,"  she  said  suddenly.  "I. 
did  n't  ask  you  to  come  back.  I  don't  want  you." 

20 1 


"Good  Heavens,  Grace!  You  always  knew  I  would 
have  to  marry  some  day." 

"  I  was  sick;  I  nearly  died.  I  did  n't  hear  any  re- 
ports of  you  hanging  around  the  hospital  to  learn 
how  I  was  getting  along." 

He  laughed  rather  sheepishly. 

"  I  had  to  be  careful.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I 
do.  I  know  half  the  staff  there.  Besides,  one  of  —  " 
He  hesitated  over  his  wife's  name.  "A  girl  I  know 
very  well  was  in  the  training-school.  There  would 
have  been  the  devil  to  pay  if  I  'd  as  much  as  called 
up." 

"You  never  told  me  you  were  going  to  get  mar- 
ried" 

Cornered,  he  slipped  an  arm  around  her.  But  she 
shook  him  off. 

"I  meant  to  tell  you,  honey;  but  you  got  sick. 
Anyhow,  I  —  I  hated  to  tell  you,  honey." 

He  had  furnished  the  flat  for  her.  There  was  a 
comfortable  feeling  of  coming  home  about  going 
there  again.  And,  now  that  the  worst  minute  of 
their  meeting  was  over,  he  was  visibly  happier. 
But  Grace  continued  to  stand  eyeing  him  somberly. 

"  I  've  got  something  to  tell  you,"  she  said.  "  Don't 
have  a  fit,  and  don't  laugh.  If  you  do,  I'll  —  I '11 
jump  out  of  the  window.  I  Ve  got  a  place  in  a  store. 
",'m  going  to  be  straight,  Palmer." 

"Good  for  you!" 

He  meant  it.  She  was  a  nice  girl  and  he  was  fond 
of  her.  The  other  was  a  dog's  life.  And  he  was  no* 

202 


unselfish  about  it.  She  could  not  belong  to  him.  He 
did  not  want  her  to  belong  to  any  one  else. 

"One  of  the  nurses  in  the  hospital,  a  Miss  Page, 
has  got  me  something  to  do  at  Linton  and  Hof- 
burg's.  I  am  going  on  for  the  January  white  sale, 
If  I  make  good  they  will  keep  me." 

He  had  put  her  aside  without  a  qualm ;  and  now  he 
met  her  announcement  with  approval.  He  meant  to 
let  her  alone.  They  would  have  a  holiday  together 
and  then  they  would  say  good-bye.  And  she  had  not 
fooled  him.  She  still  cared.  He  was  getting  off  wells, 
all  things  considered.  She  might  have  raised  a  row= 

"Good  work ! "  he  said.  "  You '11  be  a  lot  happier. 
But  that  is  n't  any  reason  why  we  should  n't  be 
friends,  is  it?  Just  friends;  I  mean  that.  I  would 
like  to  feel  that  I  can  stop  in  now  and  then  and  say 
how  do  you  do." 

"  I  promised  Miss  Page." 

"Never  mind  Miss  Page." 

The  mention  of  Sidney's  name  brought  up  in  his 
mind  Christine  as  he  had  left  her  that  morning.  He 
scowled.  Things  were  not  going  well  at  home.  There 
was  something  wrong  with  Christine.  She  used  to 
be  a  good  sport,  but  she  had  never  been  the  same 
since  the  day  of  the  wedding.  He  thought  her  at- 
titude toward  him  was  one  of  suspicion.  It  made 
him  uncomfortable.  But  any  attempt  on  his  part  to 
fathom  it  only  met  with  cold  silence.  That  had  been 
her  attitude  that  morning. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  he  said.  "We  won't 
203 


go  to  any  of  the  old  places.  I  Ve  found  a  new  road" 
house  in  the  country  that 's  respectable  enough  to 
suit  anybody.  We'll  go  out  to  Sohwitter's  and  get 
some  dinner.  I  '11  prorrise  to  get  you  back  early  t 
How's  that?" 

In  the  end  she  gave  in.  And  on  the  way  out  he 
lived  up  to  the  letter  of  their  agreement.  The  situa- 
tion exhilarated  him:  Grace  with  her  new  air  of 
virtue,  her  new  aloofness;  his  comfortable  car; 
Johnny  Rosenf eld's  discreet  back  and  alert  ears. 

The  adventure  had  all  the  thrill  of  a  new  conquest 
in  it.  He  treated  the  girl  with  deference,  did  not 
insist  when  she  refused  a  cigarette,  felt  glowingly 
virtuous  and  exultant  at  the  same  time. 

When  the  car  drew  up  before  the  Schwitter  place, 
he  slipped  a  five-dollar  bill  into  Johnny  Rosenfeld's 
not  over-clean  hand. 

"I  don't  mind  the  ears,"  he  said.  "Just  watch 
your  tongue,  lad."  And  Johnny  stalled  his  engine  in 
sheer  surprise. 

''There's  just  enough  of  the  Jew  in  me,"  said 
Johnny,  "  to  know  how  to  talk  a  lot  and  say  nothing, 
Mr.  Howe." 

He  crawled  stiffly  out  of  the  car  and  prepared  tc 
crank  it. 

"  I  '11  just  give  her  the  'once  over'  now  and  then." 
he  said.  "She'll  freeze  solid  if  I  let  her  stand.'' 

Grace  had  gone  up  the  narrow  path  to  the  house. 
She  had  the  gift  of  looking  well  in  her  clothes,  and 
her  small  hat  with  its  long  quill  and  her  motor-coat 

204 


K 


were  chic  and  becoming.   She  never  overdressed,  as 
Christine  was  inclined  to  do. 

.  Fortunately  for  Palmer,  Tillie  did  not  see  him.  A 
heavy  German  maid  waited  at  the  table  in  the  din- 
ing-room, while  Tillie  baked  waffles  in  the  kitchen. 

Johnny  Rosenfeld,  going  around  the  side  path  to 
the  kitchen  door  with  visions  of  hot  coffee  and  a 
country  supper  for  his  frozen  stomach,  saw  her 
through  the  window  bending  flushed  over  the  stovey 
and  hesitated.  Then,  without  a  word,  he  tiptoed 
back  to  the  car  again,  and,  crawling  into  thetonneau, 
covered  himself  with  rugs.  In  his  untutored  mind 
were  certain  great  qualities,  and  loyalty  to  his  em- 
ployer was  one.  The  five  dollars  in  his  pocket  had 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it. 

At  eighteen  he  had  developed  a  philosophy  of  four 
words.  It  took  the  place  of  the  Golden  Rule,  the 
Ten  Commandments,  and  the  Catechism.  It  was: 
"Mind  your  own  business." 

The  discovery  of  Tillie's  hiding-place  interested 
but  did  not  thrill  him.  Tillie  was  his  cousin.  If  she 
wanted  to  do  the  sort  of  thing  she  was  doing,  that 
was  her  affair.  Tillie  and  her  middle-aged  lover, 
Palmer  Howe  and  Grace  —  the  alley  was  not  un- 
familiar with  such  relationships.  It  viewed  them 
with  tolerance  until  they  were  found  out,  when  it 
raised  its  hands. 

• 

True  to  his  promise,  Palmer  wakened  the  sleep- 
ing boy  before  nine  o'clock.  Grace  had  eaten  little 

,205 


K 


and  drunk  nothing;  but  Howe  was  slightly  stimu- 
lated. 

"Give  her  the  'once  over,' "  he  told  Johnny,  ''and 
then  go  back  and  crawl  into  the  rugs  again.  I'll 
drive  in." 

Grace  sat  beside  him.  Their  progress  was  slow 
and  rough  over  the  country  roads,  but  when  they 
reached  the  State  road  Howe  threw  open  the  throttle. 
He  drove  well.  The  liquor  was  in  his  blood.  He  took 
chances  and  got  away  with  them,  laughing  at  the 
girl's  gasps  of  dismay. 

"Wait -until  I  get  beyond  Simkinsville,"  he  said, 
"and  I'll  let  her  out.  You're  going  to  travel  to- 
night, honey." 

The  girl  sat  beside  him  with  her  eyes  fixed  ahead. 
He  had  been  drinking,  and  the  warmth  of  the  liquor 
was  in  his  voice.  She  was  determined  on  one  thing. 
She  was  going  to  make  him  live  up  to  the  letter  of 
his  promise  to  go  away  at  the  house  door;  and  more 
and  more  she  realized  that  it  would  be  difficult.  His 
mood  was  reckless,  masterfu/  Instead  of  laughing 
when  she  drew  back  from  a  proffered  caress,  he 
turned  surly.  Obstinate  lines  that  she  remembered 
appeared  from  his  nostrils  to  the  corners  of  his 
mouth.  She  was  uneasy. 

Finally  she  hit  on  a  plan  to  make  him  stop  some- 
where in  her  neighborhood  and  let  her  get  out  of  the 
car.  She  would  not  come  back  after  that. 

There  was  another  car  going  toward  the  city.  Now 
it  passed  them,  and  as  often  they  passed  it.  It  be- 

co6 


came  a  contest  of  wits.  Palmer's  car  lost  on  the  hills, 
but  gained  on  the  long  level  stretches,  which  gleamed 
•with  a  coating  of  thin  ice. 

"I  wish  you'd  let  them  get  ahead,  Palmer.  It's 
silly  and  it's  reckless." 

"I  told  you  we'd  travel  to-night." 
He  turned  a  little  glance  at  her.    What  the  deuce 
was  the  matter  with  women,  anyhow?   Were  none 
of  them  cheerful  any  more?    Here  was  Grace  as 
sober  as  Christine.   He  felt  outraged,  defrauded. 

His  light  car  skidded  and  struck  the  big  car 
heavily.  On  a  smooth  road  perhaps  nothing  more 
serious  than  broken  mudguards  would  have  been  the 
result.  But  on  the  ice  the  small  car  slewed  around 
and  slid  over  the  edge  of  the  bank.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  declivity  it  turned  over. 

Grace  was  flung  clear  of  the  wreckage.  Howe 
freed  himself  and  stood  erect,  with  one  arm  hanging 
at  his  side.  There  was  no  sound  at  all  from  the  boy 
under  the  tonneau. 

The  big  car  had  stopped.  Down  the  bank  plunged 
a  heavy,  gorilla-like  figure,  long  arms  pushing  aside 
the  frozen  branches  of  trees.  When  he  reached  the 
car,  O'Hara  found  Grace  sitting  unhurt  on  the 
ground.  In  the  wreck  of  the  car  the  lamps  had  not 
been  extinguished,  and  by  their  light  he  made  out 
Howe,  swaying  dizzily. 
"Anybody  underneath?" 

"The  chauffeur.  He's  dead,  I  think.  He  does  n't 
answer." 

207 


K 


The  other  members  of  O'Hara's  party  had  crawled 
down  the  bank  by  that  time.  With  the  aid  of  a  jack, 
they  got  the  car  up.  Johnny  Rosenfeld  lay  dou- 
bled on  his  face  underneath.  When  he  came  to  and 
opened  his  eyes,  Grace  almost  shrieked  her  relief. 

"I'm  all  right,"  said  Johnny  Rosenfeld.  And, 
when  they  offered  him  whiskey:  "Away  with  the 
fire-water.  I  am  no  drinker.  I  —  I — "  A  spasm  of 
pain  twisted  his  face.  "I  guess  I'll  get  up."  With 
his  arms  he  lifted  himself  to  a  sitting  position,  and 
fell  back  again. 

"God!"  he  said.  "I  can't  move  my  legs." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

BY  Christmas  Day  Sidney  was  back  in  the  hospital, 
a  little  wan,  but  valiantly  determined  to  keep  her 
life  to  its  mark  of  service.  She  had  a  talk  with  K. 
the  night  before  she  left. 

Katie  was  out,  and  Sidney  had  put  the  dining- 
room  in  order.  K.  sat  by  the  table  and  watched  her 
as  she  moved  about  the  room. 

The  past  few  weeks  had  been  very  wonderful  to 
him:  to  help  her  up  and  down  the  stairs,  to  read  to 
her  in  the  evenings  as  she  lay  on  the  couch  in  the 
sewing-room;  later,  as  she  improved,  to  bring  small 
dainties  home  for  her  tray,  and,  having  stood  over 
Katie  while  she  cooked  them,  to  bear  them  in  tri- 
umph to  that  upper  room  —  he  had  not  been  so 
happy  in  years. 

And  now  it  was  over.  He  drew  a  long  breath. 

"I  hope  you  don't  feel  as  if  you  must  stay  on," 
she  said  anxiously.  "Not  that  we  don't  want  you 
—  you  know  better  than  that." 

"There  is  no  place  else  in  the  whole  world  that 
I  want  to  go  to,"  he  said  simply. 

"I  seem  to  be  always  relying  on  somebody's 
kindness  to  —  to  keep  things  together.  First,  for 
years  and  years,  it  was  Aunt  Harriet;  now  it  is 
you." 

"Don't  you  realize  that,  instead  of  your  being 
209 


K 


grateful  to  me,  it  is  I  who  am  undeniably  grateful 
to  you?  This  is  home  now.  I  have  lived  around  — 
in  different  places  and  in  different  ways.  I  would 
rather  be  here  than  anywhere  else  in  the  world." 

But  he  did  not  look  at  her.  There  was  so  much 
that  was  hopeless  in  his  eyes  that  he  did  not  want 
her  to  see.  She  would  be  quite  capable,  he  told  him- 
self savagely,  of  marrying  him  out  of  sheer  pity  if 
she  ever  guessed.  And  he  was  afraid  —  afraid,  since 
he  wanted  her  so  much  —  that  he  would  be  fool  and 
weakling  enough  to  take  her  even  on  those  terms. 
So  he  looked  away. 

Everything  was  ready  for  her  return  to  the  hos- 
pital. She  had  been  out  that  day  to  put  flowers  on 
the  quiet  grave  where  Anna  lay  with  folded  hands; 
she  had  made  her  round  of  little  visits  on  the  Street; 
and  now  her  suit-case,  packed,  was  in  the  hall. 

"  In  one  way,  it  will  be  a  little  better  for  you  than 
if  Christine  and  Palmer  were  not  in  the  house.  You 
like  Christine,  don't  you?" 

"Very  much." 

"She  likes  you,  K.  She  depends  on  you,  too. 
especially  since  that  night  when  you  took  care  of 
Palmer's  arm  before  we  got  Dr.  Max.  I  often  think, 
K.,  what  a  good  doctor  you  would  have  been.  You 
knew  so  well  what  to  do  for  mother." 

She  broke  off.  She  still  could  not  trust  her  voice 
about  her  mother. 

"  Palmer's  arm  is  going  to  be  quite  straight.  Dr.  Ed 
is  so  proud  of  Max  over  it.  It  was  a  bad  fracture." 

OTO 


JC 


He  had  been  waiting  for  that.  Once  at  least, 
whenever  they  were  together,  she  brought  Max  into 
the  conversation.  She  was  quite  unconscious  of  it. 

"You  and  Max  are  great  friends.  I  knew  yov 
tvould  like  him.  He  is  interesting,  don't  you  think?  " 

"Very,"  said  K. 

To  save  his  life,  he  could  not  put  any  warmth 
into  his  voice.  He  would  be  fair.  It  was  not  in 
human  nature  to  expect  more  of  him. 

"Those  long  talks  you  have,  shut  in  your  room 
—  <vhat  in  the  world  do  you  talk  about?  Politics?" 

"Occasionally." 

She  was  a  little  jealous  of  those  evenings,  when  she 
sat  alone,  or  when  Harriet,  sitting  with  her,  made 
sketches  under  the  lamp  to  the  accomDaniment 
of  a  steady  hum  of  masculine  voices  from  across 
the  hall.  Not  that  she  was  ignored,  of  course.  Max 
came  in  always,  before  he  went,  and,  leaning  over 
the  back  of  a  chair,  would  inform  her  of  the  absolute 
blankness  of  life  in  the  hospital  without  her. 

"  I  go  every  day  because  I  must,"  he  would  assure 
her  gayly;  "but,  I  tell  you,  the  snap  is  gone  out  of 
it.  When  there  was  a  chance  that  every  cap  was 
your  cap,  the  mere  progress  along  a  corridor  became, 
thrilling."  He  had  a  foreign  trick  of  throwing  out 
his  hands,  with  a  little  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "  Cui 
bono?"  he  said  —  which,  being  translated,  means: 
"What  the  devil's  the  use!" 

And  K.  would  stand  in  the  doorway,  quietly 
smoking,  or  go  back  to  his  room  and  lock  away  in 

211 


his  trunk  the  great  German  books  on  surgery  with 
which  he  and  Max  had  been  working  out  a  case. 

So  K.  sat  by  the  dining-room  table  and  listened 
to  her  talk  of  Max  that  last  evening  together. 

"I  told  Mrs.  Rosenfeld  to-day  not  to  be  too 
much  discouraged  about  Johnny.  I  had  seen  Dr. 
Max  do  such  wonderful  things.  Now  that  you  are 
such  friends,"  -she  eyed  him  wistfully,  —  "per- 
haps some  day  you  will  come  to  one  of  his  opera- 
tions. Even  if  you  did  n't  understand  exactly,  I 
know  it  would  thrill  you.  And  —  I'd  like  you  to  see 
me  in  my  uniform,  K.  You  never  have." 

She  grew  a  little  sad  as  the  evening  went  on.  She 
was  going  to  miss  K.  very  much.  While  she  was  ill 
she  had  watched  the  clock  for  the  time  to  listen  for 
him.  She  knew  the  way  he  slammed  the  front  door. 
Palmer  never  slammed  the  door.  She  knew  too  that, 
just  after  a  bang  that  threatened  the  very  glass  in 
the  transom,  K.  would  come  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
and  call :  — 

"Ahoy,  there!" 

"Aye,  aye,"  she  would  answer  —  which  was,  he 
assured  her,  the  proper  response. 

Whether  he  came  up  the  stairs  at  once  or  took  his 
way  back  to  Katie  had  depended  on  whether  his 
tribute  for  the  day  was  fruit  or  sweetbreads. 

Now  that  was  all  over.  They  were  such  good 
friends.  He  would  miss  her,  too ;  but  he  would  have 
Harriet  and  Christine  and  —  Max.  Back  in  a  circle 
to  Max,  of  course. 

212 


She  insisted,  that  last  evening,  on  sitting  up  with 
him  until  midnight  ushered  in  Christmas  Day. 
Christine  and  Palmer  were  out;  Harriet,  having 
presented  Sidney  with  a  blouse  that  had  been  left 
over  in  the  shop  from  the  autumn's  business,  had 
yawned  herself  to  bed. 

\Yhen  the  bells  announced  midnight,  Sidney 
roused  with  a  start.  She  realized  that  for  some  time 
neither  of  them  had  spoken,  and  that  K.'s  eyes  were 
fixed  on  her.  The  little  clock  on  the  shelf  took  up 
the  burden  of  the  churches,  and  struck  the  hour  in 
quick  staccato  notes. 

Sidney  rose  and  went  over  to  K.,  her  black  dress 
in  soft  folds  about  her. 

"He  is  born,  K." 

"He  is  born,  dear." 

She  stooped  and  kissed  his  cheek  lightly. 

Christmas  Day  dawned  thick  and  white.  Sidney 
left  the  little  house  at  six,  with  the  street  light 
still  burning  through  a  mist  of  falling  snow. 

The  hospital  wards  and  corridors  were  still 
lighted  when  she  went  on  duty  at  seven  o'clock. 
She  had  been  assigned  to  the  men's  surgical  ward, 
and  went  there  at  once.  She  had  not  seen  Carlotta 
Harrison  since  her  mother's  death ;  but  she  found  her 
on  duty  in  the  surgical  ward.  For  the  second  time  in 
four  months,  the  two  girls  were  working  side  by  side. 

Sidney's  recollection  of  her  previous  service  under 
Carlotta  made  her  nervous.  But  the  older  girl  greeted 
her  pleasantly. 

213 


K 


"We  were  all  sorry  to  hear  of  your  trouble,"  she 
said.  "  I  hope  we  shall  get  on  nicely." 

Sidney  surveyed  the  ward,  full  to  overflowing. 
\t  the  f?r  end  two  cots  had  been  placed. 

"The  ward  is  heavy,  is  n't  it?" 

"Very.  I've  been  almost  mad  at  dressing  hour. 
There  are  three  of  us  —  you,  myself,  and  a  proba* 
tioner." 

The  first  light  of  the  Christmas  morning  was 
coming  through  the  windows.  Carlotta  put  out  the 
lights  and  turned  in  a  business-like  way  to  her 
records. 

"The  probationer's  name  is  Wardwell,"  she  said. 
"  Perhaps  you  'd  better  help  her  with  the  breakfasts. 
If  there's  any  way  to  make  a  mistake,  she  makes 
it." 

It  was  after  eight  when  Sidney  found  Johnny 
Rosenfeld. 

"You  here  in  the  ward,  Johnny!"  she  said. 

Suffering  had  refined  the  boy's  features.  His  dark, 
heavily  fringed  eyes  looked  at  her  from  a  pale  face. 
But  he  smiled  up  at  her  cheerfully. 

"  I  was  in  a  private  room ;  but  it  cost  thirty  plunks 
a.  week,  so  I  moved.  Why  pay  rent?" 

Sidney  had  not  seen  him  since  his  accident.  She 
had  wished  to  go,  but  K.  had  urged  against  it.  She 
was  not  strong,  and  she  had  already  suffered  much. 
And  now  the  work  of  the  ward  pressed  hard.  She 
had  only  a  moment.  She  stood  beside  him  and 
stroked  his  hand. 

214 


"I'm  sorry,  Johnny." 

He  pretended  to  think  that  her  sympathy  was  for 
his  fall  from  the  estate  of  a  private  patient  to  the 
free  ward. 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,  Miss  Sidney,"  he  said.   "Mr 
Howe  is  paying  six  dollars  a  week  for  me.   The  dif- 
ference between  me  and  the  other  fellows  around  here 
is  that  I  get  a  napkin  on  my  tray  and  they  don't." 

Before  his  determined  cheerfulness  Sidney  choked. 

"Six  dollars  a  week  for  a  napkin  is  going  some. 
I  wish  you  'd  tell  Mr.  Howe  to  give  ma  the  six  dol- 
lars. She  '11  be  needing  it.  I  'm  no  bloated  aristocrat; 
I  don't  have  to  have  a  napkin." 

"Have  they  told  you  what  the  trouble  is?" 

"Back's  broke.  But  don't  let  that  worry  you. 
Dr.  Max  Wilson  is  going  to  operate  on  me.  I  '11  be 
doing  the  tango  yet." 

Sidney's  eyes  shone.  Of  course,  Max  could  do 
it.  What  a  thing  it  was  to  be  able  to  take  this  life-in- 
death  of  Johnny  Rosenfeld's  and  make  it  life  again! 

All  sorts  of  men  made  up  Sidney's  world:  the 
derelicts  who  wandered  through  the  ward  in  flapping 
slippers,  listlessly  carrying  trays;  the  unshaven  men 
in  the  beds,  looking  forward  to  another  day  of  bore- 
dom, if  not  of  pain;  Palmer  Howe  with  his  broken 
arm;  K.,  tender  and  strong,  but  filling  no  especial 
place  in  the  world.  Towering  over  them  all  was  the 
younger  Wilson.  He  meant  for  her,  that  Christmas 
morning,  all  that  the  other  men  were  not  —  to  their 
weakness  strength,  courage,  daring,  power. 

215 


Johnny  Rosenfeld  lay  back  on  the  pillows  and 
watched  her  face. 

"When  I  was  a  kid,"  he  said,  "and  ran  along  the 
Street,  calling  Dr.  Max  a  dude,  I  never  thought  I  'd 
lie  here  watching  that  door  to  see  him  come  in.  You 
have  had  trouble,  too.  Ain't  it  the  hell  of  a  world, 
anyhow?  It  ain't  much  of  a  Christmas  to  you, 
either." 

Sidney  fed  him  his  morning  beef  tea,  and,  be- 
cause her  eyes  filled  up  with  tears  now  and  then 
at  his  helplessness,  she  was  not  so  skillful  as  she 
might  have  been.  When  one  spoonful  had  gone 
down  his  neck,  he  smiled  up  at  her  whimsically. 

"Run  for  your  life.   The  dam's  burst!"  he  said. 

As  much  as  was  possible,  the  hospital  rested  on 
that  Christmas  Day.  The  internes  went  about  in 
fresh  white  ducks  with  sprays  of  mistletoe  in  their 
buttonholes,  doing  few  dressings.  Over  the  upper 
floors,  where  the  kitchens  were  located,  spread 
toward  noon  the  insidious  odor  of  roasting  turkeys. 
Every  ward  had  its  vase  of  holly.  In  the  afternoon, 
services  were  held  in  the  chapel  downstairs. 

Wheel-chairs  made  their  slow  progress  along  cor- 
ridors and  down  elevators.  Convalescents  who  were 
able  to  walk  flapped  along  in  carpet  slippers. 

Gradually  the  chapel  filled  up.  Outside  the  wide 
doors  of  the  corridor  the  wheel-chairs  wen  arranged 
in  a  semicircle.  Behind  them,  dressed  foj  the  occa- 
sion, were  the  elevator-men,  the  orderlies,  and  Big 
John,  who  drove  the  ambulance. 

216 


On  one  side  of  the  aisle,  near  the  front,  sat  the 
nurses  in  rows,  in  crisp  caps  and  fresh  uniforms.  On 
the  other  side  had  been  reserved  a  place  for  the  staff. 
The  internes  stood  back  against  the  wall,  ready  to 
run  out  between  rejoicings,  as  it  were  —  for  a  cigar- 
ette or  an  ambulance  call,  as  the  case  might  be. 

Over  everything  brooded  the  after-dinner  peace 
of  Christmas  afternoon. 

The  nurses  sang,  and  Sidney  sang  with  them,  her 
fresh  young  voice  rising  above  the  rest.  Yellow  win- 
ter sunlight  came  through  the  stained-glass  windows 
and  shone  on  her  lovely  flushed  face,  her  smooth 
kerchief,  her  cap,  always  just  a  little  awry. 

Dr.  Max,  lounging  against  the  wall,  across  the 
chapel,  found  his  eyes  straying  toward  her  con- 
stantly. How  she  stood  out  from  the  others!  What 
a  zest  for  living  and  for  happiness  she  had ! 

The  Episcopal  clergyman  read  the  Epistle:  — 

"Thou  hast  loved  righteousness,  and  hated  ini- 
quity; therefore  God,  even  thy  God,  hath  anointed 
thee  with  the  oil  of  gladness  above  thy  fellows." 

That  was  Sidney.  She  was  good,  and  she  had 
been  anointed  with  the  oil  of  gladness.  And  he  — 

His  brother  was  singing.  His  deep  bass  voice,  not 
always  true,  boomed  out  above  the  sound  of  the 
small  organ.  Ed  had  been  a  good  brother  to  him; 
he  had  been  a  good  son. 

Max's  vagrant  mind  wandered  away  from  the 
service  to  the  pictve  of  his  mother  over  his  brother's 
littered  desk,  to  the  Street,  to  K.,  to  the  girl  who  had 

217 


refused  to  marry  him  because  she  did  not  trust  him, 
to  Carlotta  last  of  all.  He  turned  a  little  and  ran  his 
eyes  along  the  line  of  nurses. 

Ah,  there  she  was.  As  if  she  were  conscious  of  his 
scrutiny,  she  lifted  her  head  and  glanced  toward  him. 
Swift  color  flooded  her  face. 

The  nurses  sang:  — 

"O  holy  Child  of  Bethlehem! 

Descend  to  us,  we  pray; 
Cast  out  our  sin,  and  enter  in, 
Be  born  in  us  to-day." 

The  wheel-chairs  and  convalescents  quavered  the 
familiar  words.  Dr.  Ed's  heavy  throat  shook  with 
earnestness. 

The  Head,  sitting  a  little  apart  with  her  hands 
folded  in  her  lap  and  weary  with  the  suffering  of  the 
world,  closed  her  eyes  and  listened. 

The  Christmas  morning  had  brought  Sidney  half 
a  dozen  gifts.  K.  sent  her  a  silver  thermometer  case 
with  her  monogram,  Christine  a  toilet  mirror.  But 
the  gift  of  gifts,  over  which  Sidney's  eyes  had 
glowed,  was  a  great  box  of  roses  marked  in  Dr. 
Max's  copper-plate  writing,  "From  a  neighbor." 

Tucked  in  the  soft  folds  of  her  kerchief  was  one 
of  the  roses  that  afternoon. 

Services  over,  the  nurses  filed  out.  Max  was  wait- 
ing for  Sidney  in  the  corridor. 

"Merry  Christmas!"  he  said,  and  held  out  hia 
hand. 

218 


"Merry  Christmas!"  she  said.  "You  see!"  — 
she  glanced  down  to  the  rose  she  wore.  "The  others 
make  the  most  splendid  bit  of  color  in  the  ward." 

"But  they  were  for  you!" 

"They  are  not  any  the  less  mine  because  I  am 
letting  other  people  have  a  chance  to  enjoy  them." 

Under  all  his  gayety  he  was  curiously  diffident 
with  her.  All  the  pretty  speeches  he  would  have 
made  to  Carlotta  under  the  circumstances  died 
before  her  frank  glance. 

There  were  many  things  he  wanted  to  say  to  her. 
He  wanted  to  tell  her  that  he  was  sorry  her  mother 
had  died;  that  the  Street  was  empty  without  her; 
that  he  looked  forward  to  these  daily  meetings  with 
her  as  a  holy  man  to  his  hour  before  his  saint.  What 
he  really  said  was  to  inquire  politely  whether  she 
had  had  her  Christmas  dinner. 

Sidney  eyed  him,  half  amused,  half  hurt. 

"What  have  I  done,  Max?  Is  it  bad  for  disci- 
pline for  us  to  be  good  friends?" 

"Damn  discipline!"  said  the  pride  of  the  staff. 

Carlotta  was  watching  them  from  the  chapel. 
Something  in  her  eyes  roused  the  devil  of  mischief 
that  always  slumbered  in  him. 

"My  car's  been  stalled  in  a  snowdrift  downtown 
since  early  this  morning,  and  I  have  Ed's  Peggy  in 
a  sleigh.  Put  on  your  things  and  come  for  a  ride." 

He  hoped  Carlotta  could  hear  what  he  said;  to 
be  certain  of  it,  he  maliciously  raised  his  voice  a 
trifle. 

219 


"Just  a  little  run,"  he  urged.  "  Put  on  your  warm* 
est  things." 

Sidney  protested.  She  was  to  be  free  that  after- 
noon until  six  o'clock;  but  she  had  promised  to  go 
home. 

"K.  is  alone." 

"K.  can  sit  with  Christine.  Ten  to  one,  he's  with 
her  now." 

The  temptation  was  very  strong.  She  had  been 
working  hard  all  day.  The  heavy  odor  of  the  hos- 
pital, mingled  with  the  scent  of  pine  and  evergreen 
in  the  chapel,  made  her  dizzy.  The  fresh  outdoors 
called  her.  And,  besides,  if  K.  were  with  Christine  — 

"It's  forbidden,  is  n't  it?" 

"  I  believe  it  is."    He  smiled  at  her. 

"And  yet,  you  continue  to  tempt  me  and  expect 
me  to  yield!" 

"One  of  the  most  delightful  things  about  tempta- 
tion is  yielding  now  and  then." 

After  all,  the  situation  seemed  absurd.  Here  was 
her  old  friend  and  neighbor  asking  to  take  her  out 
for  a  daylight  ride.  The  swift  rebellion  of  youth 
against  authority  surged  up  in  Sidney. 

"Very  well;  I'll  go." 

Carlotta  had  gone  by  that  time  —  gone  with  hate 
in  her  heart  and  black  despair.  She  knew  very  well 
what  the  issue  would  be.  Sidney  would  drive  with 
him,  and  he  would  tell  her  how  lovely  she  looked  with 
the  air  on  her  face  and  the  snow  about  her.  The 
jerky  motion  of  the  little  sleigh  would  throw  them 

220 


-.lose  together.  How  well  she  knew  it  all!  He  would 
~:ouch  Sidney's  hand  daringly  and  smile  in  her  eyes. 
That  was  his  method:  to  play  at  love-making  like 
an  audacious  boy,  until  quite  suddenly  the  cloak 
dropped  and  the  danger  was  there. 

The  Christmas  excitement  had  not  died  out  in 
the  ward  when  Carlotta  went  back  to  it.  On  each 
bedside  table  \vas  an  orange,  and  beside  it  a  pair  of 
woolen  gloves  and  a  folded  white  handkerchief. 
There  wrere  sprays  of  holly  scattered  about,  too,  and 
the  after-dinner  content  of  roast  turkey  and  ice- 
cream. 

The  lame  girl  who  played  the  violin  limped  down 
the  corridor  into  the  ward.  She  was  greeted  with 
silence,  that  truest  tribute,  and  with  the  instant 
~~mposing  of  the  restless  ward  to  peace. 

*^he  was  pretty  in  a  young,  pathetic  way,  and 
because  to  her  Christmas  was  a  festival  and  meant 
hope  and  the  promise  of  the  young  Lord,  she  played 
cheerful  things. 

The  ward  sat  up,  remembered  that  it  was  not  the 
Sabbath,  smiled  across  from  bed  to  bed. 

The  probationer,  whose  name  was  Ward  well,  wag 
?»  tall,  lean  girl  with  a  long,  pointed  nose.  She  kept 
up  a  running  accompaniment  of  small  talk  to  the 
music. 

"Last  Christmas,"  she  said  plaintively,  "we went 
out  into  the  country  in  a  hay-wagon  and  had  a 
real  time.  I  don't  know  what  I  am  here  for.  any= 
how.  I  am  a  fool." 


K 


"Undoubtedly,"  said  Carlotta. 

"Turkey  and  goose,  mince  pie  and  pumpkin  pie, 
four  kinds  of  cake ;  that 's  the  sort  of  spread  we  have 
up  in  our  part  of  the  world.  When  I  think  of  what 
I  sat  down  to  to-day  — !" 

She  had  a  profound  respect  for  Carlotta,  and  her 
motto  in  the  hospital  differed  from  Sidney's  in  that 
it  was  to  placate  her  superiors,  while  Sidney's  had 
been  to  care  for  her  patients. 

Seeing  Carlotta  bored,  she  ventured  a  little  gossip, 
She  had  idly  glued  the  label  of  a  medicine  bottle  on 
the  back  of  her  hand,  and  was  scratching  a  skull 
and  cross-bones  on  it. 

"I  wonder  if  you  have  noticed  something,"  she 
said,  eyes  on  the  label. 

"I  have  noticed  that  the  three-o'clock  medicines 
are  not  given,"  said  Carlotta  sharply;  and  Miss 
Wardwell,  still  labeled  and  adorned,  made  the  rounds 
of  the  ward. 

When  she  came  back  she  was  sulky. 

"  I  'm  no  gossip,"  she  said,  putting  the  tray  on  the 
table.  "If  you  won't  see,  you  won't.  That  Rosen- 
feld  boy  is  crying." 

As  it  was  not  required  that  tears  be  recorded  on 
the  record,  Carlotta  paid  no  attention  to  this. 

"What  won't  I  see?" 

It  required  a  little  urging  now.  Miss  Wardwell 
swelled  with  importance  and  let  her  superior  ask 
her  twice.  Then :  — 

"Dr.  Wilson's  crazy  about  Miss  Page." 

222 


A  hand  seemed  to  catch  Carlotta's  heart  and 
hold  it. 

"They're  old  friends." 

"  Piffle !  Being  an  old  friend  does  n't  make  you  look 
at  a  girl  as  if  you  wanted  to  take  a  bite  out  of  her. 
Mark  my  word,  Miss  Harrison,  ahe'll  never  finish 
her  training;  she'll  marry  him.  I  wish,"  concluded 
the  probationer  plaintively,  "that  some  good-look- 
ing fellow  like  that  would  take  a  fancy  to  me.  I  'd  do 
him  credit.  I  am  as  ugly  as  a  mud  fence,  but  I  've 
got  style." 

She  was  right,  probably.  She  was  long  and  sinu- 
ous, but  she  wore  her  lanky,  ill-fitting  clothes  with 
a  certain  distinction.  Harriet  Kennedy  would  have 
dressed  her  in  jade  green  to  match  her  eyes,  and  with 
long  jade  earrings,  and  made  her  a  fashion. 

Carlotta's  lips  were  dry.  The  violinist  had  seen 
the  tears  on  Johnny  Rosenfeld's  white  cheeks,  and 
had  rushed  into  rollicking,  joyous  music.  The  ward 
echoed  with  it.  "I'm  twenty-one  and  she's  eight* 
een,"  hummed  the  ward  under  its  breath.  Miss 
Wardwell's  thin  body  swayed. 

"Lord,  how  I'd  like  to  dance!  If  I  ever  get  out 
of  this  charnel-house!" 

The  medicine-tray  lay  at  Carlotta's  elbow;  beside 
it  the  box  of  labels.  This  crude  girl  was  right  — 
right.  Carlotta  knew  it  down  to  the  depths  of  her 
tortured  brain.  As  inevitably  as  the  night  followed 
the  day,  she  was  losing  her  game.  She  had  lost 
already,  unless  — 


If  she  could  get  Sidney  out  of  the  hospital,  it 
would  simplify  things.  She  surmised  shrewdly  that 
on  the  Street  their  interests  were  wide  apart.  It 
was  here  that  they  met  on  common  ground. 

The  lame  violin-player  limped  out  of  the  ward; 
the  shadows  of  the  early  winter  twilight  settled 
down.  At  five  o'clock  Carlotta  sent  Miss  Wardwell 
to  first  supper,  to  the  surprise  of  that  seldom  sur- 
prised person.  The  ward  lay  still  or  shuffled  about 
quietly.  Christmas  was  over,  and  there  were  no 
evening  papers  to  look  forward  to. 

Carlotta  gave  the  five-o'clock  medicines.  Then 
she  sat  down  at  the  table  near  the  door,  with  the 
tray  in  front  of  her.  There  are  certain  thoughts 
that  are  at  first  functions  of  the  brain;  after  a  long 
time  the  spinal  cord  takes  them  up  and  converts 
them  into  acts  almost  automatically.  Perhaps  be- 
cause for  the  last  month  she  had  done  the  thing  so 
often  in  her  mind,  its  actual  performance  was  almost 
without  conscious  thought. 

Carlotta  took  a  bottle  from  her  medicine  cup- 
board, and,  writing  a  new  label  for  it,  pasted  it 
over  the  old  one.  Then  she  exchanged  it  for  one  of 
the  same  size  on  the  medicine  tray. 

In  the  dining-room,  at  the  probationers'  table, 
Miss  Wardwell  was  talking. 

"Believe  me,"  she  said,  "me  for  the  country  and 
the  simple  life  after  this.  They  think  I'm  only  a 
probationer  and  don't  see  anything,  but  I've  got 
eyes  in  my  head.  Harrison  is  stark  crazy  over  Dr. 

.224 


Wilson,  and  she  thinks  I  don't  see  it.  But  never 
mind ;  I  paid  her  up  to-day  for  a  few  of  the  jolts  she 
has  given  me." 

Throughout  the  dining-room  busy  and  competent 
young  women  came  and  ate,  hastily  or  leisurely  as 
their  opportunity  was,  and  went  on  their  way  again. 
In  their  hands  they  held  the  keys,  not  always  of  life 
and  death  perhaps,  but  of  ease  from  pain,  of  tender- 
ness, of  smooth  pillows,  and  cups  of  water  to  thirsty 
lips.  In  their  eyes,  as  in  Sidney's,  burned  the  light 
of  service. 

But  here  and  there  one  found  women,  like  Carlotta 
and  Miss  Wardwell,  who  had  mistaken  their  voca- 
tion, who  railed  against  the  monotony  of  the  life, 
its  limitations,  its  endless  sacrifices.  They  showed 
it  in  their  eyes. 

Fifty  or  so  against  two  —  fifty  who  looked  out  on 
the  world  with  the  fearless  glance  of  those  who  have 
seen  life  to  its  depths,  and,  with  the  broad  under- 
standing of  actual  contact,  still  found  it  good.  Fifty 
who  were  learning  or  had  learned  not  to  draw  aside 
their  clean  starched  skirts  from  the  drab  of  the 
streets.  And  the  fifty,  who  found  the  very  scum  of 
the  gutters  not  too  filthy  for  tenderness  and  care, 
let  Carlotta  and,  in  lesser  measure,  the  new  proba- 
tioner alone.  They  could  not  have  voiced  their  rea- 
sons. 

The  supper-room  was  filled  with  their  soft  voices, 
the  rustle  of  their  skirts,  the  gleam  of  their  stiff 
white  caps. 

225 


When  Carlotta  came  in,  she  greeted  none  of  them. 
They  did  not  like  her,  and  she  knew  it. 

Before  her,  instead  of  the  tidy  supper- table,  she 
was  seeing  the  medicine-tray  as  she  had  left  it. 

"1  guess  I've  fixed  her,"  she  said  to  herself. 

Her  very  soul  was  sick  with  fear  of  what  she 
done. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

K.  SAW  Sidney  for  only  a  moment  on  Christmas 
Day.  This  was  when  the  gay  little  sleigh  had 
stopped  in  front  of  the  house. 

Sidney  had  hurried  radiantly  in  for  a  moment. 
Christine's  parlor  was  gay  with  firelight  and  noisy 
with  chatter  and  with  the  clatter  of  her  tea-cups. 

K.,  lounging  indolently  in  front  of  the  fire,  had 
turned  to  see  Sidney  in  the  doorway,  and  leaped  to 
his  feet. 

"  I  can't  come  in,"  she  cried.  "  I  am  only  here  for 
a  moment.  I  am  out  sleigh-riding  with  Dr.  Wilson. 
It's  perfectly  delightful." 

"Ask  him  in  for  a  cup  of  tea,"  Christine  called 
out.  "Here's  Aunt  Harriet  and  mother  and  even 
Palmer!" 

Christine  had  aged  during  the  last  weeks,  but  she 
was  putting  up  a  brave  front. 

"I'll  ask  him." 

Sidney  ran  to  the  front  door  and  called:  "Will 
you  come  in  for  a  cup  of  tea?" 

"Tea!  Good  Heavens,  no.    Hurry." 

As  Sidney  turned  back  into  the  house,  she  met 
Palmer.  He  had  come  out  in  the  hall,  and  had  closed 
the  door  into  the  parlor  behind  him.  His  arm  was 
still  in  splints,  and  swung  suspended  in  a  gay  silk 


227 


The  sound  of  laughter  came  through  the  door 
faintly. 

"How  is  he  to-day?"  He  meant  Johnny,  of 
course.  The  boy's  face  was  always  with  him. 

"  Better  in  some  ways,  but  of  course  — " 

"When  are  they  going  to  operate?" 

"When  he  is  a  little  stronger.  W7hy  don't  you 
come  in  to  see  him?" 

"  I  can't.  That's  the  truth.  I  can't  face  the  poor 
youngster." 

"He  does  n't  seem  to  blame  you;  he  says  it's  all 
in  the  game." 

"Sidney,  does  Christine  know  that  I  was  not 
alone  that  night?" 

"  If  she  guesses,  it  is  not  because  of  anything  the 
boy  has  said.  He  has  told  nothing." 

Out  of  the  firelight,  away  from  the  chatter  and  the 
laughter,  Palmer's  face  showed  worn  and  haggard. 
He  put  his  free  hand  on  Sidney's  shoulder. 

"  I  was  thinking  that  perhaps  if  I  -went  away  — " 

"That  would  be  cowardly,  would  n't  it?" 

"If  Christine  would  only  say  something  and  get 
it  over  with!  She  does  n't  sulk;  I  think  she's  really 
trying  to  be  kind.  But  she  hates  me,  Sidney.  She 
turns  pale  every  time  I  touch  her  hand." 

All  the  light  had  died  out  of  Sidney's  face.  Life 
was  terrible,  after  all  —  overwhelming.  One  did 
wrong  things,  and  other  people  suffered ;  or  one  was 
good,  as  her  mother  had  been,  and  was  left  lonely, 
a  widow,  or  like  Aunt  Harriet.  Life  was  a  sham, 

228 


too.  Things  were  so  different  from  what  they  seemed 
to  be:  Christine  beyond  the  door,  pouring  tea  and 
laughing,  with  her  heart  in  ashes ;  Palmer  beside  her, 
faultlessly  dressed  and  wretched.  The  only  one 
she  thought  really  contented  was  K.  He  seemed  to 
move  so  calmly  in  his  little  orbit.  He  was  always 
so  steady,  so  balanced.  If  life  held  no  heights  for 
him,  at  least  it  held  no  depths. 

So  Sidney  thought,  in  her  ignorance! 

1 '  There 's  only  one  thing,  Palmer, ' '  she  said  gravely. 
"Johnny  Rosenfeld  is  going  to  have  his  chance. 
If  anybody  in  the  world  can  save  him,  Max  Wilson 
can." 

The  light  of  that  speech  was  in  her  eyes  when  she 
went  out  to  the  sleigh  again.  K.  followed  her  out 
and  tucked  the  robes  in  carefully  about  her. 

"Warm  enough?" 

"All  right,  thank  you." 

"  Don't  go  too  far.  Is  there  any  chance  of  having 
you  home  for  supper?" 

"  I  think  not.    I  am  to  go  on  duty  at  six  again." 

If  there  was  a  shadow  in  K.'s  eyes,  she  did  not  see 
it.  He  waved  them  off  smilingly  from  the  pavement, 
and  went  rather  heavily  back  into  the  house. 

"Just  how  many  men  are  in  love  with  you, 
Sidney?"  asked  Max,  as  Peggy  started  up  the 
Street. 

"No  one  that  I  know  of,  unless  — " 

"Exactly.   Unless—" 

"What  I  meant,"  she  said  with  dignity,  "is  that 
229 


unless  one  counts  very  young  men,  and  that  is  n't 
really  love." 

"We'll  leave  out  Joe  Drummond  and  myself  — 
for,  of  course,  I  am  very  young.  Who  is  in  love  with 
you  besides  Le  Moyne?  Any  of  the  internes  at  the 
hospital?" 

"Me!   Le  Moyne  is  not  in  love  with  me." 

There  was  such  sincerity  in  her  voice  that  Wilson 
was  relieved. 

K.,  older  than  himself  and  more  grave,  had  always 
had  an  odd  attraction  for  women.  He  had  been 
frankly  bored  by  them,  but  the  fact  had  remained. 
And  Max  more  than  suspected  that  now,  at  last, 
he  had  been  caught. 

"  Don't  you  really  mean  that  you  are  in  love  with 
Le  Moyne?" 

"Please  don't  be  absurd.  I  am  not  in  love  with 
anybody;  I  have  n't  time  to  be  in  love.  I  have  my 
profession  now." 

"Bah!  A  woman's  real  profession  is  love." 

Sidney  differed  from  this  hotly.  So  warm  did 
the  argument  become  that  they  passed  without 
seeing  a  middle-aged  gentleman,  short  and  rather 
heavy  set,  struggling  through  a  snowdrift  on  foot, 
and  carrying  in  his  hand  a  dilapidated  leather 
bag. 

Dr.  Ed  hailed  them.  But  the  cutter  slipped  by  and 
left  him  knee-deep,  looking  ruefully  after  them. 

"The  young  scamp!"  he  said.  "So  that's  where 
Peggy  is!" 

230 


Nevertheless,  there  was  no  anger  in  Dr.  Ed's 
mind,  only  a  vague  and  inarticulate  regret.  These 
things  that  came  so  easily  to  Max,  the  affection  of 
women,  gay  little  irresponsibilities  like  the  stealing 
of  Peggy  and  the  sleigh,  had  never  been  his.  If  there 
was  any  faint  resentment,  it  was  at  himself.  He  had 
raised  the  boy  wrong  —  he  had  taught  him  to  be 
selfish.  Holding  the  bag  high  out  of  the  drifts,  he 
made  his  slow  progress  up  the  Street. 

At  something  after  two  o'clock  that  night,  K.  put 
down  his  pipe  and  listened.  He  had  not  been  able 
to  sleep  since  midnight.  In  his  dressing-gown  he  had 
sat  by  the  small  fire,  thinking.  The  content  of  his 
first  few  months  on  the  Street  was  rapidly  giving 
way  to  unrest.  He  who  had  meant  to  cut  himself  off 
from  life  found  himself  again  in  close  touch  with  it ; 
his  eddy  was  deep  with  it. 

For  the  first  time,  he  had  begun  to  question  the 
wisdom  of  what  he  had  done.  Had  it  been  cowardice, 
after  all?  It  had  taken  courage,  God  knew,  to  give 
up  everything  and  come  away.  In  a  way,  it  would 
have  taken  more  courage  to  have  stayed.  Had  he 
been  right  or  wrong? 

And  there  was  a  new  element.  He  had  thought, 
at  first,  that  he  could  fight  down  this  love  for  Sidney. 
But  it  was  increasingly  hard.  The  innocent  touch 
of  her  hand  on  his  arm,  the  moment  when  he  had 
held  her  in  his  arms  after  her  mother's  death,  the 
thousand  small  contacts  of  her  returns  to  the  little 

231 


house  —  all  these  set  his  blood  on  fire.    And  it  was 
fighting  blood. 

Under  his  quiet  exterior  K.  fought  many  conflicts 
those  winter  days  —  over  his  desk  and  ledger  at  the 
office,  in  his  room  alone,  with  Harriet  planning  fresh 
triumphs  beyond  the  partition,  even  by  Christine's 
fire,  with  Christine  just  across,  sitting  in  silence  and 
watching  his  grave  profile  and  steady  eyes. 

He  had  a  little  picture  of  Sidney  —  a  snap-shot 
that  he  had  taken  himself.  It  showed  Sidney  minus 
a  hand,  which  had  been  out  of  range  when  the  camera 
had  been  snapped,  and  standing  on  a  steep  declivity 
which  would  have  been  quite  a  level  had  he  held  the 
camera  straight.  Nevertheless  it  was  Sidney,  her 
hair  blowing  about  her,  eyes  looking  out,  tender  lips 
smiling.  When  she  was  not  at  home,  it  sat  on  K.'s 
dresser,  propped  against  his  collar-box.  When  she 
was  in  the  house,  it  lay  under  the  pin-cushion. 

Two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  then,  and  K.  in  his 
dressing-gown,  with  the  picture  propped,  not  against 
the  collar-box,  but  against  his  lamp,  where  he  could 
see  it. 

He  sat  forward  in  his  chair,  his  hands  folded 
around  his  knee,  and  looked  at  it.  He  was  trying  to 
picture  the  Sidney  of  the  photograph  in  his  old  life — 
trying  to  find  a  place  for  her.  But  it  was  difficult. 
There  had  been  few  women  in  his  old  life.  His  mo- 
ther had  died  many  years  before.  There  had  been 
women  who  had  cared  for  him,  but  he  put  them  im- 
patiently out  of  his  mind. 

232 


K 


Then  the  bell  rang. 

Christine  was  moving  about  below.  He  could  hear 
her  quick  steps.  Almost  before  he  had  heaved  his 
long  legs  out  of  the  chair,  she  was  tapping  at  his  door 
outside. 

"It's  Mrs.  Rosenfeld.  She  says  she  wants  to  see 
you." 

He  went  down  the  stairs.  Mrs.  Rosenfeld  was 
standing  in  the  lower  hall,  a  shawl  about  her 
shoulders.  Her  face  was  white  and  drawn  above 
it. 

"I've  had  word  to  go  to  the  hospital,"  she  said 
v '  I  thought  maybe  you  'd  go  with  me.   It  seems  as  if 
I  can't  stand  it  alone.    Oh,  Johnny,  Johnny!" 

"Where's  Palmer?"  K.  demanded  of  Christine. 

"He's  not  in  yet." 

"Are  you  afraid  to  stay  in  the  house  alone?" 

"No;  please  go." 

He  ran  up  the  staircase  to  his  room  and  flung  on 
some  clothing.  In  the  lower  hall,  Mrs.  Rosenfeld's 
sobs  had  become  low  moans.  Christine  stood  help- 
lessly over  her. 

"  I  am  terribly  sorry,"  she  said  —  "terribly  sorry i 
When  I  think  whose  fault  all  this  is!" 

Mrs.  Rosenfeld  put  out  a  work-hardened  hand 
and  caught  Christine's  fingers. 

"Never  mind  that,"  she  said.  "You  didn't  do 
it.  I  guess  you  and  I  understand  each  other.  Only 
pray  God  you  never  have  a  child." 

K.  never  forgot  the  scene  in  the  small  emergency 
233 


ward  to  which  Johnny  had  been  taken.  Under  the 
white  lights  his  boyish  figure  looked  strangely  long. 
There  was  a  group  around  the  bed  —  Max  Wilson, 
two  or  three  internes,  the  night  nurse  on  duty,  and 
the  Head. 

Sitting  just  inside  the  door  on  a  straight  chair  was 
Sidney  —  such  a  Sidney  as  he  never  had  seen  before, 
her  face  colorless,  her  eyes  wide  and  unseeing,  her 
hands  clenched  in  her  lap.  When  he  stood  beside 
her,  she  did  not  move  or  look  up.  The  group  around 
the  bed  had  parted  to  admit  Mrs.  Rosenfeld,  and 
closed  again.  Only  Sidney  and  K.  remained  by  the 
door,  isolated,  alone. 

"You  must  not  take  it  like  that,  dear.  It's  sad, 
of  course.  But,  after  all,  in  that  condition  — " 

It  was  her  first  knowledge  that  he  was  there.  But 
she  did  not  turn. 

"They  say  I  poisoned  him."  Her  voice  was  dreary, 
inflectionless. 

"You  — what?" 

"They  say  I  gave  him  the  wrong  medicine;  that 
he's  dying;  that  I  murdered  him."  She  shivered. 

K.  touched  her  hands.   They  were  ice-cold. 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell.  I  came  on  duty  at  six 
o'clock  and  gave  the  medicines.  When  the  night 
nurse  came  on  at  seven,  everything  was  all  right. 
The  medicine- tray  was  just  as  it  should  be.  Johnny 
was  asleep.  I  went  to  say  good-night  to  him  and  he 
• —  he  was  asleep.  I  did  n't  give  him  anything  but 


what  was  on  the  tray,"  she  finished  piteously.  "I 
looked  at  the  label;  I  always  look." 

By  a  shifting  of  the  group  around  the  bed,  K.'s 
eyes  looked  for  a  moment  directly  into  Carlotta's. 
Just  for  a  moment;  then  the  crowd  closed  up  again. 
It  was  well  for  Carlotta  that  it  did.  She  looked  as  if 
she  had  seen  a  ghost  —  closed  her  eyes,  even  reeled. 

''Miss  Harrison  is  worn  out,"  Dr.  Wilson  said 
brusquely.  "Get  some  one  to  take  her  place." 

But  Carlotta  rallied.  After  all,  the  presence  of  this 
man  in  this  room  at  such  a  time  meant  nothing.  He 
was  Sidney's  friend,  that  was  all. 

But  her  nerve  was  shaken.  The  thing  had  gone 
beyond  her.  She  had  not  meant  to  kill.  It  was  the 
boy's  weakened  condition  that  was  turning  her  re- 
venge into  tragedy. 

"  I  am  all  right,"  she  pleaded  across  the  bed  to  the 
Head.  "Let  me  stay,  please.  He's  from  my  ward. 
I  —  I  am  responsible." 

Wilson  was  at  his  wits'  end.  He  had  done  every- 
thing he  knew  without  result.  The  boy,  rousing  for 
an  instant,  would  lapse  again  into  stupor.  With  a 
healthy  man  they  could  have  tried  more  vigorous 
measures  —  could  have  forced  him  to  his  feet  and 
walked  him  about,  could  have  beaten  him  with 
knotted  towels  dipped  in  ice-water.  But  the  wrecked 
body  on  the  bed  could  stand  no  such  heroic  treat- 
ment. 

It  was  Le  Moyne,  after  all,  who  saved  Johnny 
Rosenf eld's  life.  For,  when  staff  and  nurses  had  ex- 


hausted  all  their  resources,  he  stepped  forward  with 
a  quiet  word  that  brought  the  internes  to  their  feet 
astonished. 

There  was  a  new  treatment  for  such  cases  —  it 
had  been  tried  abroad.  He  looked  at  Max. 

Max  had  never  heard  of  it.  He  threw  out  his 
hands. 

"Try  it,  for  Heaven's  sake,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  all  in." 

The  apparatus  was  not  in  the  house  —  must  be 
extemporized,  indeed,  at  last,  of  odds  and  ends  from 
the  operating-room.  K.  did  the  work,  his  long  fingers 
deft  and  skillful  —  while  Mrs.  Rosenfeld  knelt  by 
the  bed  with  her  face  buried;  while  Sidney  sat, 
dazed  and  bewildered,  on  her  little  chair  inside  the 
door;  while  night  nurses  tiptoed  along  the  corridor, 
and  the  night  watchman  stared  incredulous  from 
outside  the  door. 

When  the  two  great  rectangles  that  were  the  emer- 
gency ward  windows  had  turned  from  mirrors  re- 
flecting the  room  to  gray  rectangles  in  the  morning 
light,  Johnny  Rosenfeld  opened  his  eyes  and  spoke 
the  first  words  that  marked  his  return  from  the 
dark  valley. 

"Gee,  this  is  the  life!"  he  said,  and  smiled  into 
K.'s  watchful  face. 

When  it  was  clear  that  the  boy  would  live,  K.  rose 
stiffly  from  the  bedside  and  went  over  to  Sidney's 
chair. 

"He's  all  right  now,"  he  said  —  "as  all  right  as 
he  can  be,  poor  lad!" 

236 


"  You  did  it  —  you !  How  strange  that  you  should 
know  such  a  thing.  How  am  I  to  thank  you?" 

The  internes,  talking  among  themselves,  had  wan- 
dered down  tc  their  dining-room  for  early  coffee. 
Wilson  was  giving  a  few  last  instructions  as  to  the 
boy's  care.  Quite  unexpectedly,  Sidney  caught  K.'s 
hand  and  held  it  to  her  lips.  The  iron  repression  of 
the  night,  of  months  indeed,  fell  away  before  her 
simple  caress. 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  he  said  huskily.  "Any- 
thing that  I  can  do  —  for  you  —  at  any  time  — " 

It  was  after  Sidney  had  crept  like  a  broken  thing 
to  her  room  that  Carlotta  Harrison  and  K.  came 
face  to  face.  Johnny  was  quite  conscious  by  that 
time,  a  little  blue  around  the  1'ps,  J-  #  valiantly 
cheerful. 

"More  things  can  happen  to  a  fellow  than  I  ever 
knew  there  was!"  he  said  to  his  mother,  and  sub- 
mitted rather  sheepishly  to  her  tears  and  caresses. 

"You  were  always  a  good  boy,  Johnny,"  she  said. 
"Just  you  get  well  enough  to  come  home.  I  '11  take 
care  of  you  the  rest  of  my  life.  We  will  get  you  a 
wheel-chair  when  you  can  be  about,  and  I  can  take 
you  out  in  the  park  when  I  come  from  work." 

"I'll  be  passenger  and  you'll  be  chauffeur,  ma." 

"Mr.  Le  Moyne  is  going  to  get  your  father  sent 
up  again.  With  sixty-five  cents  a  day  and  what  I 
make,  we'll  get  along." 

"You  bet  we  will!" 

"Oh,  Johnny,  if  I  could  see  you  coming  in  the 

.237 


door  again  and  yelling  'mother'  and  'supper'  in  one 
breath!" 

The  meeting  between  Carlotta  and  Le  Moyne  was 
very  quiet.  She  had  been  making  a  sort  of  subcon 
scious  impression  on  the  retina  of  his  mind  during 
all  the  night.    It  would  be  difficult  to  tell  when  he 
actually  knew  her. 

When  the  preparations  for  moving  Johnny  back 
to  the  big  ward  had  been  made,  the  other  nurses  left 
the  room,  and  Carlotta  and  the  boy  were  together, 
K.  stopped  her  on  her  way  to  the  door. 

"Miss  Harrison!" 

"Yes,  Dr.  Edwardes." 

"I  am  not  Dr.  Edwardes  here;  my  name  is  Le 
Moyne." 

"Ah!" 

"  I  have  not  seen  you  since  you  left  St.  John's." 

"No;  I  —  I  rested  for  a  few  months." 

"  I  suppose  they  do  not  know  that  you  were  — 
that  you  have  had  any  previous  hospital  experi« 
ence." 

"No.   Are  you  going  to  tell  them?" 

"  I  shall  not  tell  them,  of  course." 

And  thus,  by  simple  mutual  consent,  it  was  ar- 
ranged that  each  should  respect  the  other's  con- 
fidence. 

Carlotta  staggered  to  her  room.  There  had  been 
a  time,  just  before  dawn,  when  she  had  had  one 
of  those  swift  revelations  that  sometimes  come  at  the 
end  of  a  long  night.  She  had  seen  herself  as  she  was. 

1238 


The  boy  was  very  low,  hardly  breathing.  Her  past 
stretched  behind  her,  a  series  of  small  revenges  and 
passionate  outbursts,  swift  yieldings,  slow  remorse. 
She  dared  not  look  ahead.  She  would  have  given 
every  hope  she  had  in  the  world,  just  then,  for  Sid- 
ney's stainless  past. 

She  hated  herself  with  that  deadliest  loathing  that 
comes  of  complete  self-revelation. 

And  she  carried  to  her  room  the  knowledge  that 
the  night's  struggle  had  been  in  vain  —  that,  al- 
though Johnny  Rosenfeld  would  live,  she  had  gained 
nothing  by  what  he  had  suffered.  The  whole  night 
had  shown  her  the  hopelessness  of  any  stratagem 
to  win  Wilson  from  his  new  allegiance.  She  had  sur- 
prised him  in  the  hallway,  watching  Sidney's  slender 
figure  as  she  made  her  way  up  the  stairs  to  her  room. 
Never,  in  all  his  past  overtures  to  her.  had  she  seen 
diat  look  in  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

To  Harriet  Kennedy,  Sidney's  sentence  of  thirty 
days'  suspension  came  as  a  blow.  K.  broke  the  news 
to  her  that  evening  before  the  time  for  Sidney  V 
arrival. 

The  little  household  was  sharing  in  Harriet's  pros- 
perity. Katie  had  a  helper  now,  a  little  Austrian  girl 
named  Mimi.  And  Harriet  had  established  on  the 
Street  the  innovation  of  after-dinner  coffee.  It  was 
over  the  after-dinner  coffee  that  K.  made  his  an- 
nouncement. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  saying  she  is  coming  home 
for  thirty  days?  Is  the  child  ill?" 

"  Not  ill,  although  she  is  not  quite  well.  The  fact 
is,  Harriet, "  —  f  or  it  was ' '  Harriet ' '  and ' '  K. "  by  this 
time,  —  "there  has  been  a  sort  of  semi-accident 
ap  at  the  hospital.  It  has  n't  resulted  seriously, 
but  —  " 

Harriet  put  down  the  apostle-spoon  in  her  hand 
and  stared  across  at  him. 

"Then  she  has  been  suspended?  What  did  she 
do?  I  don't  believe  she  did  anything!" 

"There  was  a  mistake  about  the  medicine,  and 
she  was  blamed;  that's  all." 

"She'd  better  come  home  and  stay  home,"  said 
Harriet  shortly.  "I  hope  it  doesn't  get  in  the 
papers.  This  dressmaking  business  is  a  funny  sort 

240 


of  thing.  One  word  against  you  or  any  of  your  fam- 
ily, and  the  crowd's  off  somewhere  else." 

"There's  nothing  against  Sidney,"  K.  reminded 
her.  "Nothing  in  the  world.  I  saw  the  superinten- 
dent myself  this  afternoon.  It  seems  it's  a  mere 
matter  of  discipline.  Somebody  made  a  mistake,  and 
they  cannot  let  such  a  thing  go  by.  But  he  believes, 
as  I  do,  that  it  was  not  Sidney." 

However  Harriet  had  hardened  herself  against 
the  girl's  arrival,  all  she  had  meant  to  say  fled 
when  she  saw  Sidney's  circled  eyes  and  pathetic 
mouth. 

"You  child!"  she  said.  "You  poor  little  girl!'* 
And  took  her  to  her  corseted  bosom. 

For  the  time  at  least,  Sidney's  world  had  gone  to 
pieces  about  her.  All  her  brave  vaunt  of  service 
faded  before  her  disgrace. 

When  Christine  would  have  seen  her,  she  kept 
her  door  locked  and  asked  for  just  that  one  evening 
alone.  But  after  Harriet  had  retired,  and  Mimi,  the 
Austrian,  had  crept  out  to  the  corner  to  mail  a 
letter  back  to  Gratz,  Sidney  unbolted  her  door  and 
listened  in  the  little  upper  hall.  Harriet,  her  head 
in  a  towel,  her  face  carefully  cold-creamed,  had  gone 
to  bed;  but  K.'s  light,  as  usual,  was  shining  over  the 
transom.  Sidney  tiptoed  to  the  door. 

"K.!" 

Almost  immediately  he  opened  the  door. 

"May  I  come  in  and  talk  to  you?" 

He  turned  and  took  a  quick  survey  of  the  room. 
.  241 


The  picture  was  against  the  collar-box.  But  he  took 
the  risk  and  held  the  door  wide. 

Sidney  came  in  and  sat  down  by  the  fire.  By  being 
adroit  he  managed  to  slip  the  little  picture  over  and 
under  the  box  before  she  saw  it.  It  is  doubtful  if  she 
would  have  realized  its  significance,  had  she  seen  it. 

"I've  been  thinking  things  over,"  she  said.  "It 
seems  to  me  I  'd  better  not  go  back." 

He  had  left  the  door  carefully  open.  Men  are  al- 
ways more  conventional  than  women. 

"That  would  be  foolish,  would  n't  it,  when  you 
have  done  so  well?  And,  besides,  since  you  are  not 
guilty,  Sidney — " 

41 1  did  n't  do  it!"  she  cried  passionately.  "  I  know 
I  did  n't.  But  I  Ve  lost  faith  in  myself.  I  can't  keep 
on ;  that 's  all  there  is  to  it.  All  last  night,  in  the  emer- 
gency ward,  I  felt  it  going.  I  clutched  at  it.  I  kept 
saying  to  myself:  'You  didn't  do  it,  you  didn't 
do  it ' ;  and  all  the  time  something  inside  of  me 
was  saying,  'Not  now,  perhaps;  but  sometime  you 
may.' ' 

Poor  K.,  who  had  reasoned  all  this  out  for  him- 
self and  had  come  to  the  same  impasse! 

To  go  on  like  this,  feeling  that  one  has  life  and 
death  in  one's  hand,  and  then  perhaps  some  day  tc 
make  a  mistake  like  that!"  She  looked  up  at  him 
forlornly.  "  I  am  just  not  brave  enough,  K." 

"Would  n't  it  be  braver  to  keep  on?  Are  n't  you 
giving  up  very  easily?" 

Her  world  was  in  pieces  about  her,  and  she  felt 
242^ 


alone  in  a  wide  and  empty  place.  And,  because  her 
nerves  were  drawn  taut  until  they  were  ready  to 
enap,  Sidney  turned  on  him  shrewishly. 

"I  think  you  are  all  afraid  I  will  come  back  to 
stay.  Nobody  really  wants  me  anywhere  —  in  all 
the  world!  Not  at  the  hospital,  not  here,  not  any 
place.  I  am  no  use." 

"  When  you  say  that  nobody  wants  you,"  said  K., 
not  very  steadily,  "I  —  I  think  you  are  making  a 
mistake." 

"Who? "she  demanded.  "Christine?  Aunt  Har- 
riet? Katie?  The  only  person  who  ever  really  wanted 
me  was  my  mother,  and  I  went  away  and  left  her!" 

She  scanned  his  face  closely,  and,  reading  there 
something  she  did  not  understand,  she  colored  sud- 
denly. 

"I  believe  you  mean  Joe  Drummond." 

"No;  I  do  not  mean  Joe  Drummond." 

If  he  had  found  any  encouragement  in  her  face, 
he  would  have  gone  on  recklessly ;  but  her  blank  eyes 
warned  him. 

"If  you  mean  Max  Wilson,"  said  Sidney,  "you 
are  entirely  wrong.  He's  not  in  love  with  me  —  not, 
that  is,  any  more  than  he  is  in  love  with  a  dozen 
girls.  He  likes  to  be  with  me  —  oh,  I  know  that;  but 
that  does  n't  mean  —  anything  else.  Anyhow,  after 
this  disgrace  — " 

"There  is  no  disgrace,  child." 

"He'll  think  me  careless,  at  the  least.  And  his 
ideals  are  so  high,  K." 

243 


"You  say  he  likes  to  be  with  you.  What  about 
you?" 

Sidney  had  been  sitting  in  a  low  chair  by  the  fire. 
She  rose  with  a  sudden  passionate  movement.  In 
the  informality  of  the  household,  she  had  visited 
K.  in  her  dressing-gown  and  slippers;  and  now  she 
stood  before  him,  a  tragic  young  figure,  clutching  the 
folds  of  her  gown  across  her  breast. 

"I  worship  him,  K.,"  she  said  tragically.  "When 
I  see  him  coming,  I  want  to  get  down  and  let  him 
walk  on  me.  I  know  his  step  in  the  hall.  I  know  the 
very  way  he  rings  for  the  elevator.  When  I  see  him 
in  the  operating-room,  cool  and  calm  while  every 
one  else  is  flustered  and  excited,  he  —  he  looks  like 
a  god." 

Then,  half  ashamed  of  her  outburst,  she  turned 
her  back  to  him  and  stood  gazing  at  the  small  coal 
fire.  It  was  as  well  for  K.  that  she  did  not  see  his 
face.  For  that  one  moment  the  despair  that  was  in 
him  shone  in  his  eyes.  He  glanced  around  the  shabby 
little  room,  at  the  sagging  bed,  the  collar-box,  the  pin- 
cushion, the  old  marble-topped  bureau  under  which 
Reginald  had  formerly  made  his  nest,  at  his  untidy 
table,  littered  with  pipes  and  books,  at  the  image  in 
the  mirror  of  his  own  tall  figure,  stooped  and  weary. 

"It's  real,  all  this?"  he  asked  after  a  pause. 
'You're  sure  it's  not  just  —  glamour,  Sidney?" 

"It's  real  —  terribly  real."  Her  voice  was 
muffled,  and  he  knew  then  that  she  was  crying. 

She  was  mightily  ashamed  of  it.  Tears,  of  course, 
244 


K 


except  in  the  privacy  of  one's  closet,  were  not  ethiu 
cal  on  the  Street. 

"Perhaps  he  cares  very  much,  too." 

"Give  me  a  handkerchief,"  said  Sidney  in  a 
muffled  tone,  and  the  little  scene  was  broken  into 
while  K.  searched  through  a  bureau  drawer.  Then: 

"It's  all  over,  anyhow,  since  this.  If  he'd  really 
cared  he'd  have  come  over  to-night.  When  one  is 
in  trouble  one  needs  friends." 

Back  in  a  circle  she  came  inevitably  to  her  sus- 
pension. She  would  never  go  back,  she  said  passion- 
ately. She  was  innocent,  had  been  falsely  accused, 
If  they  could  think  such  a  thing  about  her,  she 
didn't  want  to  be  in  their  old  hospital. 

K.  questioned  her,  alternately  soothing  and 
probing. 

"You  are  positive  about  it?" 

"Absolutely.  I  have  given  him  his  medicines 
dozens  of  times." 

"You  looked  at  the  label?" 

"I  swear  I  did,  K." 

"Who  else  had  access  to  the  medicine  closet?" 

"Carlotta  Harrison  carried  the  keys,  of  courss. 
I  was  off  duty  from  four  to  six.  When  Carlotta  left 
the  ward,  the  probationer  would  have  them." 

"Have  you  reason  to  think  that  either  one  of  these 
girls  would  wish  you  harm?" 

"  None  whatever,"  began  Sidney  vehemently;  and 
then,  checking  herself,  —  "unless  —  but  that's  ra- 
ther ridiculous." 

P45  . 


•'What  is  ridiculous?" 

"I've  sometimes  thought  that  Carlotta  —  but  I 
am  sure  she  is  perfectly  fair  with  me.    Even  if  she 
-if  she—  " 

"Yes?" 

"Even  if  she  likes  Dr.  Wilson,  I  don't  believe  — 
Why,  K.,  she  would  n't!  It  would  be  murder." 

"Murder,  of  course,"  said  K.,  "in  intention,  any- 
how. Of  course  she  did  n't  do  it.  I  'm  only  trying  to 
find  out  whose  mistake  it  was." 

Soon  after  that  she  said  good-night  and  went  out 
She  turned  in  the  doorway  and  smiled  tremulously 
back  at  him. 

"You  have  done  me  a  lot  of  good.  You  almost 
make  me  believe  in  myself." 

"That's  because  I  believe  in  you." 

With  a  quick  movement  that  was  one  of  her 
charms,  Sidney  suddenly  closed  the  door  and  slipped 
back  into  the  room.  K.,  hearing  the  door  close, 
thought  she  had  gone,  and  dropped  heavily  into  a 
chair. 

"My  best  friend  in  all  the  world!"  said  Sidney 
suddenly  from  behind  him,  and,  bending  over,  she 
kissed  him  on  the  cheek. 

The  next  instant  the  door  had  closed  behind  her, 
and  K.  was  left  alone  to  such  wretchedness  and  bliss 
as  the  evening  had  brought  him. 

On  toward  morning,  Harriet,  who  slept  but  rest- 
lessly in  her  towel,  wakened  to  the  glare  of  his  light 
over  the  transom. 

246 


"  K. ! "  she  called  pettishly  from  her  door.  "  I  wish 
you  would  n't  go  to  sleep  and  let  your  light  burn!" 

K.,  surmising  the  towel  and  cold  cream,  had  the 
tact  not  to  open  his  door. 

"I  am  not  asleep,  Harriet,  and  I  am  sorry  aboui 
the  light.  It's  going  out  now." 

Before  he  extinguished  the  light,  he  walked  over 
to  the  old  dresser  and  surveyed  himself  in  the  glass, 
Two  nights  without  sleep  and  much  anxiety  had 
told  on  him.  He  looked  old,  haggard,  infinitely  tired. 
Mentally  he  compared  himself  with  Wilson,  flushed 
with  success,  erect,  triumphant,  almost  insolent. 
Nothing  had  more  certainly  told  him  the  hopelessness 
of  his  love  for  Sidney  than  her  good-night  kiss.  He 
was  her  brother,  her  friend.  He  would  never  be  her 
lover.  He  drew  a  long  breath  and  proceeded  to  un- 
dress in  the  dark. 

Joe  Drummond  came  to  see  Sidney  the  next  day. 
She  would  have  avoided  him  if  she  could,  but  Mimi 
had  ushered  him  up  to  the  sewing-room  boudoir 
before  she  had  time  to  escape.  She  had  not  seen  the 
boy  for  two  months,  and  the  change  in  him  startled 
her.  He  was  thinner,  rather  hectic,  scrupulously 
well  dressed. 

"Why,  Joe!"  she  said,  and  then:  "Won't  you  sit 
down?" 

He  was  still  rather  theatrical.  He  dramatized 
himself,  as  he  had  that  night  the  June  before  when 
he  had  asked  Sidney  to  marry  him.  He  stood  just 
inside  the  doorway.  He  offered  no  conventional 

247 


greeting  whatever;  but,  after  surveying  her  briefly, 
her  black  gown,  the  lines  around  her  eyes:  — 

"You  're  not  going  back  to  that  place,  of  course?  ** 

"I  — I  have  n't  decided." 

"Then  somebody's  got  to  decide  for  you.  The 
thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  stay  right  here,  Sidney. 
People  know  you  on  the  Street.  Nobody  here  would 
ever  accuse  you  of  trying  to  murder  anybody." 

In  spite  of  herself,  Sidney  smiled  a  little. 

"Nobody  thinks  I  tried  to  murder  him.  It  was  a 
mistake  about  the  medicines.  I  did  n't  do  it,  Joe." 

His  love  was  purely  selfish,  for  he  brushed  aside 
her  protest  as  if  she  had  not  spoken. 

"You  give  me  the  word  and  I '11  go  and  get  your 
things;  I've  got  a  car  of  my  own  now." 

"  But,  Joe,  they  have  only  done  what  they  thought 
was  right.  Whoever  made  it,  there  was  a  mistake." 

He  stared  at  her  incredulously. 

"You  don't  mean  that  you  are  going  to  stand  for 
this  sort  of  thing?  Every  time  some  fool  makes  a 
mistake,  are  they  going  to  blame  it  on  you?" 

"Please  don't  be  theatrical.  Come  in  and  sit 
down.  I  can't  talk  to  you  if  you  explode  like  a 
rocket  all  the  time." 

Her  matter-of-fact  tone  had  its  effect.  He  ad- 
vanced into  the  room,  but  he  still  scorned  a  chair. 

"  I  guess  you  've  been  wondering  why  you  have  n't 
heard  from  me,"  he  said.  " I've  seen  you  more  than 
you've  seen  me." 

Sidney  looked  uneasy.  The  idea  of  espionage  is 
248 


always  repugnant,  and  to  have  a  rejected  lover  aU 
ways  in  the  offing,  as  it  were,  was  disconcerting. 

"I  v/ish  you  would  be  just  a  little  bit  sensible, 
Joe.  It 's  so  silly  of  you,  really.  It 's  not  because  you 
care  for  me;  it's  really  because  you  care  for  your- 
self." 

"You  can't  look  at  me  and  say  that,  Sid." 

He  ran  his  finger  around  his  collar  —  an  old 
gesture;  but  the  collar  was  very  loose.  He  was 
thin;  his  neck  showed  it. 

"  I  'm  just  eating  my  heart  out  for  you,  and  that's 
the  truth.  And  it  is  n't  only  that.  Everywhere  I 
go,  people  say,  'There's  the  fellow  Sidney  Page 
turned  down  when  she  wrent  into  the  hospital.'  I  've 
got  so  I  keep  off  the  Street  as  much  as  I  can." 

Sidney  was  half  alarmed,  half  irritated.  This  wild, 
excited  boy  was  not  the  doggedly  faithful  youth  she 
had  always  known.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  was 
hardly  sane  —  that  underneath  his  quiet  manner 
and  carefully  repressed  voice  there  lurked  some- 
thing irrational,  something  she  could  not  cope  with. 
She  looked  up  at  him  helplessly. 

"But  what  do  you  want  me  to  do?  You  —  you 
almost  frighten  me.  If  you'd  only  sit  down  — " 

"  I  want  you  to  come  home.  I  'm  not  asking  any- 
thing else  now.  I  just  want  you  to  come  back,  so 
that  things  will  be  the  way  they  used  to  be.  Now 
that  they  have  turned  you  out  - 

"They've  done  nothing  of  the  sort.  I've  told 
you  that." 

249 


"You're  going  back?" 

"Absolutely." 

"Because  you  love  the  hospital,  or  because  yoi 
love  somebody  connected  with  the  hospital?" 

Sidney  was  thoroughly  angry  by  this  time,  angry 
and  reckless.  She  had  come  through  so  much  that 
every  nerve  was  crying  in  passionate  protest. 

"  If  it  will  make  you  understand  things  any  bet- 
ter," she  cried,  "  I  am  going  back  for  both  reasons!" 

She  was  sorry  the  next  moment.  But  her  words 
seemed,  surprisingly  enough,  to  steady  him.  For  the 
first  time,  he  sat  down. 

"Then,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it's  all  over,  is 
it?" 

"Yes,  Joe.   I  told  you  that  long  ago." 

He  seemed  hardly  to  be  listening.  His  thoughts 
had  ranged  far  ahead.  Suddenly:  — 

"You  think  Christine  has  her  hands  full  with 
Palmer,  don't  you?  Well,  if  you  take  Max  Wilson, 
you're  going  to  have  more  trouble  than  Christine 
ever  dreamed  of.  I  can  tell  you  some  things  about 
him  now  that  will  make  you  think  twice." 

But  Sidney  had  reached  her  limit.  She  went  over 
and  flung  open  the  door. 

"Every  word  that  you  say  shows  me  how  right  I 
am  in  not  marrying  you,  Joe,"  she  said.  "Real  men 
do  not  say  those  things  about  each  other  under  any 
circumstances.  You're  behaving  like  a  bad  boy. 
I  don't  want  you  to  come  back  until  you  have  growrr 
up." 


He  was  very  white,  but  he  picked  up  his  hat  and 
went  to  the  door. 

"  I  guess  I  am  crazy,'1  he  said.  "  I  've  been  wanting 
to  go  away,  but  mother  raises  such  a  fuss  —  I  '11  not 
annoy  you  any  more." 

He  reached  in  his  pocket  and,  pulling  out  a  smal 
box,  held  it  toward  her.  The  lid  was  punched  full  of 
holes. 

" Reginald,"  he  said  solemnly.  " I've  had  him  all 
winter.  Some  boys  caught  him  in  the  park,  and  I 
brought  him  home." 

He  left  her  standing  there  speechless  with  sur- 
prise, with  the  box  in  her  hand,  and  ran  down  the 
stairs  and  out  into  the  Street.  At  the  foot  of  the 
steps  he  almost  collided  with  Dr.  Ed. 

"Back  to  see  Sidney?"  said  Dr.  Ed  genially 
"That's  fine,  Joe.  I'm  glad  you've  made  it  up." 

The  boy  went  blindly  down  the  Street. 


CHAPTER  XX 

WINTER  relaxed  its  clutch  slowly  that  year.  March 
was  bitterly  cold;  even  April  found  the  roads  still 
frozen  and  the  hedgerows  clustered  with  ice.  But 
at  mid-clay  there  was  spring  in  the  air.  In  the 
courtyard  of  the  hospital,  convalescents  sat  on  the 
benches  and  watched  for  robins.  The  fountain, 
which  had  frozen  out,  was  being  repaired.  Here  and 
there  on  \vard  window-sills  tulips  opened  their 
gaudy  petals  to  the  sun. 

Harriet  had  gone  abroad  for  a  flying  trip  in  March, 
and  came  back  laden  with  new  ideas,  model  gowns, 
and  fresh  enthusiasm.  She  carried  out  and  planted 
6owers  on  her  sister's  grave,  and  went  back  to  her 
work  with  a  feeling  of  duty  done.  A  combination  ol 
crocuses  and  snow  on  the  ground  had  given  her  an 
inspiration  for  a  gown.  She  drew  it  in  pencil  on  an 
envelope  on  her  way  back  in  the  street  car. 

Grace  Irving,  having  made  good  during  the  white 
sales,  had  been  sent  to  the  spring  cottons.  She  began 
to  walk  with  her  head  higher.  The  day  she  sold 
Sidney  material  for  a  simple  white  gown,  she  was 
very  happy.  Once  a  customer  brought  her  a  bunch 
of  primroses.  All  day  she  kept  them  under  the 
counter  in  a  glass  of  water,  and  at  evening  she  took 
them  to  Johnny  Rosenfeld,  still  lying  prone  in  the 
hospital. 


On  Sidney,  on  K.,  and  on  Christine  the  winter  ^a« 
left  its  mark  heavily.  Christine,  readjusting  her  life 
to  new  conditions,  was  graver,  more  thoughtful.  She 
was  alone  most  of  the  time  now.  Under  K.'s  guid- 
ance, she  had  given  up  the  "Duchess  "  and  was  read' 
ing  real  books.  She  was  thinking  real  thoughts,  too, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

Sidney,  as  tender  as  ever,  had  lost  a  little  of  the 
radiance  from  her  eyes;  her  voice  had  deepened. 
Where  she  had  been  a  pretty  girl,  she  was  now  lovely. 
She  was  back  in  the  hospital  again,  this  time  in  the 
children's  ward.  K.,  going  in  one  day  to  take 
Johnny  Rosenfeld  a  basket  of  fruit,  saw  her  there 
with  a  child  in  her  arms,  and  a  light  in  her  eyes  that 
he  had  never  seen  before.  It  hurt  him,  rather  — 
things  being  as  they  were  with  him.  When  he  came 
•out  he  looked  straight  ahead. 

With  the  opening  of  spring  the  little  house  at  Hill- 
joot  took  on  fresh  activities.  Tillie  was  house-clean- 
ing with  great  thoroughness.  She  scrubbed  carpets, 
took  down  the  clean  curtains,  and  put  them  up  agair 
freshly  starched.  It  was  as  if  she  found  in  sheer 
activity  and  fatigue  a  remedy  for  her  uneasiness. 

Business  had  not  been  very  good.  The  impeccable 
character  of  the  little  house  had  been  against  it, 
True,  Mr.  Schwitter  had  a  little  bar  and  served  the 
best  liquors  he  could  buy ;  t  ut  he  discouraged  rowdi* 
ness  —  hsd  been  known  /.o  refuse  to  sell  to  boys 
under  tvventy-one  and  to  men  who  had  already  over- 
indulged. Tli«L  word  went  about  that  Schwitter's  was 

.253 


no  place  for  a  good  time.   Even  Tillie's  chicken  and 
waffles  failed  against  this  handicap. 

By  the  middle  of  April  the  house-cleaning  was 
done.  One  or  two  motor  parties  had  come  out,  dined 
sedately  and  wined  moderately,  and  had  gone  back 
to  the  city  again.  The  next  two  weeks  saw  the 
weather  clear.  The  roads  dried  up,  robins  filled  the 
trees  with  their  noisy  spring  songs,  and  still  business 
continued  dull. 

By  the  first  day  of  May,  Tillie's  uneasiness  had 
become  certainty.  On  that  morning  Mr.  Sch witter, 
coming  in  from  the  early  milking,  found  her  sitting 
in  the  kitchen,  her  face  buried  in  her  apron.  He 
put  down  the  milk-pails  and,  going  over  to  her,  put 
a  hand  on  her  head. 

"I  guess  there's  no  mistake,  tnen?"1 

"There's  no  mistake,"  said  poor  Tillie  into  her 
apron. 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  the  back  of  her  neck. 
Then,  when  she  failed  to  brighten,  he  tiptoed  around 
the  kitchen,  poured  the  milk  into  pans,  and  rinsed 
the  buckets,  working  methodically  in  his  heavy  way. 
The  tea-kettle  had  boiled  dry.  He  filled  that,  too. 
Then :  — 

"Do  you  want  to  see  a  doctor?" 

"I'd  better  see  somebody,"  she  said,  without 
looking  up.  "And  —  don't  think  I  'm  blaming  you. 
I  guess  I  don't  really  blame  anybody.  As  far  as  that 
goes,  I've  wanted  a  child  right  along.  It  isn't 
the  trouble  I  am  thinking  of,  either." 

254 


He  nodded.  Words  were  unnecessary  between 
them.  He  made  some  tea  clumsily  and  browned  her 
a  piece  of  toast.  When  he  had  put  them  on  one  end 
of  the  kitchen  table,  he  went  over  to  her  again. 

"  I  guess  I  'd  ought  to  have  thought  of  this  before, 
but  all  I  thought  of  was  trying  to  get  a  little  happiness 
out  of  life.  And,"  —  he  stroked  her  arm,  —  "as  far 
as  I  am  concerned,  it's  been  worth  while,  TilLe. 
No  matter  what  I  Ve  had  to  do,  I  've  always  looked 
forward  to  coming  back  here  to  you  in  the  evening. 
Maybe  I  don't  say  it  enough,  but  I  guess  you  know 

feel  it  all  right." 

Without  looking  up,  she  placed  her  hand  over 
his. 

"I  guess  we  started  —- ong,"  he  went  on.  "You 
can't  build  happiness  on  vvhat  is  n't  right.  You  and 
1  can  manage  well  enough ;  but  now  that  there 's  go- 
ing to  be  another,  it  looks  different,  somehow." 

After  that  morning  Tillie  took  up  her  burden 
stoically.  The  hope  of  motherhood  alternated  with 
black  fits  of  depression.  She  sang  at  her  work,  to 
burst  out  into  sudden  tears. 

Other  things  were  not  going  well.  Sch witter  had 
ftiven  up  his  nursery  business ;  but  the  motorists  who 
came  to  Hillfoot  did  not  come  back.  When,  at  last, 
he  took  the  horse  and  buggy  and  drove  about  the 
country  for  orders,  he  was  too  late.  Other  nursery- 
men had  been  before  him ;  shrubberies  and  orchards 
were  already  being  set  out.  The  second  payment  on 
his  mortgage  would  be  due  in  July.  By  the  middle 

QftS 


of  May  they  were  frankly  up  against  it.  Schwitter  at 
last  dared  to  put  the  situation  into  words. 

"We're  not  making  good,  Til,"  he  said.  "And  I 
guess  you  know  the  reason.  We  are  too  decent ;  that 's 
what's  the  matter  with  us."  There  was  no  irony  in 

his  words. 

With  all  her  sophistication,  Tillie  was  vastly  ig- 
norant of  life.  He  had  to  explain. 

"We'll  have  to  keep  a  sort  of  hotel,"  he  said 
lamely.  "Sell  to  everybody  that  comes  along,  and 
*—  if  parties  want  to  stay  over-night  — " 

Tillie's  white  face  turned  crimson. 

"I'll  do  no  such  thing." 

He  attempted  a  compromise.  "  If  it 's  bad  weather, 
and  they're  married  — " 

"  How  are  we  to  know  if  they  are  married  or  not?  " 

He  admired  her  very  much  for  it.  He  had  always 
respected  her.  But  the  situation  was  not  less  acute. 
There  were  two  or  three  unfurnished  rooms  on  the 
second  floor.  He  began  to  make  tentative  sugges- 
tions as  to  their  furnishing.  Once  he  got  a  catalogue 
from  an  installment  house,  and  tried  to  hide  it 
from  her.  Tillie's  eyes  blazed.  She  burned  it  in  the 
kitchen  stove. 

Schwitter  himself  was  ashamed;  but  the  idea  ob- 
sessed him.  Other  people  fattened  on  the  frailties 
of  human  nature.  Two  miles  away,  on  the  other 
road,  was  a  public  house  that  had  netted  the  owner 
ten  thousand  dollars  profit  the  year  before.  They 
bought  their  beer  from  the  same  concern.  He  was  not 

2*6 


as  young  as  he  had  been;  there  was  the  expense  of 
keeping  his  wife  —  he  had  never  allowed  her  to  gc 
into  the  charity  ward  at  the  asylum.  Now  that  there 
was  going  to  be  a  child,  there  would  be  three  people 
dependent  upon  him.  He  was  past  fifty,  and  not 
robust. 

One  night,  after  Tillie  was  asleep,  he  slipped  noise- 
lessly into  his  clothes  and  out  to  the  barn,  where  he 
hitched  up  the  horse  with  nervous  fingers. 

Tillie  never  learned  of  that  midnight  excursion  to 
the  "Climbing  Rose,"  two  miles  away.  Lights 
blazed  in  every  window;  a  dozen  automobiles  were 
parked  before  the  barn.  Somebody  was  playing  a 
piano.  From  the  bar  came  the  jingle  of  glasses  and 
loud,  cheerful  conversation. 

When  Schwitter  turned   the  horse's  head  back 
toward  Hillfoot,  his  mind  was  made  up.   He  would 
furnish  the  upper  rooms;,  he  would  bring  a  bar 
keeper  from   town  —  these   people  wanted   mixed 
drinks ;  he  could  get  a  second-hand  piano  somevhere. 

Tillie's  rebellion  was  instant  and  complete.  When 
she  found  him  determined,  she  made  the  compro- 
oiise  that  her  condition  necessitated.  She  could  not 
eave  him,  but  she  would  not  stay  in  the  rehabili- 
cated  little  house.  When,  a  week  after  Schwitter's 
visit  to  the  "Climbing  Rose,"  an  installment  van 
arrived  from  town  with  the  new  furniture,  Tillie 
moved  out  to  what  had  been  the  harness-room  of  the 
old  barn  and  there  established  herself. 

"I  am  not  leaving  you,"  she  told  him.   "I  don't 
257 


*ven  know  that  I  am  blaming  you.  But  I  am  not 
^oing  to  have  anything  to  do  with  it,  and  that's 
flat." 

So  it  happened  that  K.,  making  a  spring  pil- 
grimage to  see  Tillie,  stopped  astounded  in  the  road. 
The  weather  was  warm,  and  he  carried  his  Norfolk 
coat  over  his  arm.  The  little  house  was  bustling;  a 
dozen  automobiles  were  parked  in  the  barnyard. 
The  bar  was  crowded,  and  a  barkeeper  in  a  white 
coat  was  mixing  drinks  with  the  casual  indifference 
of  his  kind.  There  were  tables  under  the  trees  on  the 
lawn,  and  a  new  sign  on  the  gate. 

Even  Sch witter  bore  a  new  look  of  prosperity 
Over  his  schooner  of  beer  K.  gathered  something  ot 
the  story. 

" I'm  not  proud  of  it,  Mr.  Le  Moyne.  I 've  come 
to  do  a  good  many  things  the  last  year  or  so  that  I 
never  thought  I  would  do.  But  one  thing  leads  to  an- 
other. First  I  took  Tillie  away  from  her  good  posi- 
tion, and  after  that  nothing  went  right.  Then  there 
were  things  coming  on"  —  he  looked  at  K.  anx- 
iously—  "that  meant  more  expense.  I  would  be 
^lad  if  you  would  n't  say  anything  about  it  at  Mrs= 
McKee's." 

"I'll  not  speak  of  it,  of  course." 

It  was  then,  when  K.  asked  for  Tiilie,  that  Mr. 
Schwitter's  unhappiness  became  more  apparent. 

"She  would  n't  stand  for  it,"  he  said.  "She  moved 
out  the  day  I  furnished  the  rooms  upstairs  and  got 
the  piano." 

258 


"Do  you  mean  she  has  gone?" 

"As  far  as  the  barn.  She  would  n't  stay  in  the 
house.  I  —  I'll  take  you  out  there,  if  you  would  like 
to  see  her." 

K.  shrewdly  surmised  that  Tillie  would  prefer  to 
see  him  alone,  under  the  circumstances. 

"I  guess  I  can  find  her,"  he  said,  and  rose  from 
the  little  table. 

"If  you  —  if  you  can  say  anything  to  help  me 
out,  sir,  I'd  appreciate  it.  Of  course,  she  under- 
stands how  I  am  driven.  But  —  especially  if  you 
would  tell  her  that  the  Street  doesn't  know  — " 

"  I'll  do  all  I  can,"  K.  promised,  and  followed  the 
path  to  the  barn. 

Tillie  received  him  with  a  certain  dignity.  The 
little  harness-room  was  very  comfortable.  A  white 
iron  bed  in  a  corner,  a  flat  table  with  a  mirror  above 
it,  a  rocking-chair,  and  a  sewing-machine  furnished 
the  room. 

"I  would  n't  stand  for  it,"  she  said  simply;  "so 
here  I  am.  Come  in,  Mr.  Le  Moyne." 

There  being  but  one  chair,  she  sat  on  the  bed. 
The  room  was  littered  with  small  garments  in  the 
making.  She  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  them; 
rather,  she  pointed  to  them  with  pride. 

"  I  am  making  them  myself.  I  have  a  lot  of  time 
these  days.  He's  got  a  hired  girl  at  the  house.  It 
\vas  hard  enough  to  sew  at  first,  with  me  making 
two  right  sleeves  almost  every  time."  Then,  seeing 
his  kindly  eye  on  her:  "WeH,  it's  happened,  Mr, 

259 


Le  Moyne.  What  am  I  going  tc  do?  What  am  I 
going  to  be?" 

"You're  going  to  be  a  very  good  mother,  Tillie." 

She  was  manifestly  in  need  of  cheering.  K.,  whc 
also  needed  cheering  that  spring  day,  found  his  con- 
solation in  seeing  her  brighten  under  the  small  gossip 
of  the  Street.  The  deaf-and-dumb  book  agent  had 
taken  on  life  insurance  as  a  side  issue,  and  was  doing 
well ;  the  grocery  store  at  the  corner  was  going  to  be 
torn  down,  and  over  the  new  store  there  were  to  be 
apartments;  Reginald  had  been  miraculously  re- 
turned, and  was  building  a  new  nest  under  his  bu- 
reau; Harriet  Kennedy  had  been  to  Paris,  and  had 
brought  home  six  French  words  and  a  new  figure. 

Outside  the  open  door  the  big  barn  loomed  cool 
and  shadowy,  full  of  empty  spaces  where  later  the 
hay  would  be  stored ;  anxious  mother  hens  led  their 
broods  about;  underneath  in  the  horse  stable  the 
restless  horses  pawed  in  their  stalls.  From  where 
he  sat,  Le  Moyne  could  see  only  the  round  breasts 
of  the  two  hills,  the  fresh  green  of  the  orchard,  the 
cows  in  a  meadow  beyond. 

Tillie  followed  his  eyes. 

"I  like  it  here,"  she  confessed.  "I've  had  more 
time  to  think  since  I  moved  out  than  I  ever  had  in 
my  life  before.  Them  hills  help.  When  the  noise  is 
worst  down  at  the  house,  I  look  at  the  hills  there 
and—" 

There  were  great  thoughts  in  her  mind  —  that 
the  hills  meant  God,  and  that  in  His  good  time  per- 

260 


hapr  it  would  all  come  right.  But  she  was  inarticu- 
late. "The  hills  help  a  lot,"  she  repeated. 

K.  rose.  Tillie's  work-basket  lay  near  him.  He 
picked  up  one  of  the  little  garments.  In  his  big 
hands  it  looked  small,  absurd. 

"I  —  I  want  to  tell  you  something,  Tillie.  Don't 
count  on  it  too  much;  but  Mrs.  Schwitter  has  been 
failing  rapidly  for  the  last  month  or  two." 

Tillie  caught  his  arm. 

"You've  seen  her?" 

"I  was  interested.  I  wanted  to  see  things  work 
T>ut  right  for  you." 

All  the  color  had  faded  from  Tillie's  face. 

"You're  very  good  to  me,  Mr.  Le  Moyne,"  she 
said.  "  I  don't  wish  the  poor  soul  any  harm,  but  — 
oh,  my  God !  if  she 's  going,  let  it  be  before  the  next 
four  months  are  over." 

K.  had  fallen  into  the  habit,  after  his  long  walks, 
of  dropping  into  Christine's  little  parlor  for  a  chat 
before  he  went  upstairs.  Those  early  spring  days 
found  Harriet  Kennedy  busy  late  in  the  evenings, 
and,  save  for  Christine  and  K.,  the  house  was  prac- 
tically deserted. 

The  breach  between  Palmer  and  Christine  was 
steadily  widening.  She  was  too  proud  to  ask  him  to 
spend  more  of  his  evenings  with  her.  On  those  oc- 
casions when  he  voluntarily  stayed  at  home  with 
her,  he  was  so  discontented  that  he  drove  her  almost 
to  distraction.  Although  she  was  convinced  that  he 


was  seeing  nothing  of  the  girl  who  had  been  with  him 
the  night  of  the  accident,  she  did  not  trust  him.  Not 
that  girl,  perhaps,  but  there  were  others.  There 
would  always  be  others. 

Into  Christine's  little  parlor,  then,  K.  turned,  the 
evening  after  he  had  seen  Tillie.  She  was  reading  by 
the  lamp,  and  the  door  into  the  hall  stood  open. 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  as  he  hesitated  in  the  door- 
way. 

"I  am  frightfully  dusty." 

"There's  a  brush  in  the  drawer  of  the  hat-rack  — 
although  I  don't  really  mind  how  you  look." 

The  little  room  always  cheered  K.  Its  warmth 
and  light  appealed  to  his  aesthetic  sense;  after  the 
bareness  of  his  bedroom,  it  spelled  luxury.  And 
perhaps,  to  be  entirely  frank,  there  was  more  than 
physical  comfort  and  satisfaction  in  the  evenings  he 
spent  in  Christine's  firelit  parlor.  He  was  entirely 
masculine,  and  her  evident  pleasure  in  his  society 
gratified  him.  He  had  fallen  into  a  way  of  thinking 
of  himself  as  a  sort  of  older  brother  to  all  the- world 
because  he  was  a  sort  of  older  brother  to  Sidney. 
But  Christine's  small  coquetries  were  not  lost  on 
him.  The  evenings  with  her  did  something  to  rein- 
state him  in  his  own  self-esteem.  It  was  subtle, 
psychological,  but  also  it  was  very  human. 

"Come  and  sit  down,"  said  Christine.  "Here's 
a  chair,  and  here  are  cigarettes  and  there  are 
•Hatches.  Now!" 

But,  for  once.  K.  declined  the  chair.  He  stood  in 
302 


front  of  the  fireplace  and  looked  down  at  her,  his 
head  bent  slightly  to  one  side. 

"I  wonder  if  you  would  like  to  do  a  very  kind 
thing,"  he  said  unexpectedly. 

"Make  you  coffee?" 

"Something  much  more  trouble  and  not  sc 
pleasant." 

Christine  glanced  up  at  him.  When  she  was  with 
him,  when  his  steady  eyes  looked  down  at  her,  small 
affectations  fell  away.  She  was  more  genuine  with 
K.  than  with  any  one  else,  even  herself. 

"Tell  me  what  it  is,  or  shall  I  promise  first?" 

"  I  want  you  to  promise  just  one  thing:  to  keep  s 
secret." 
/'Yours?" 

Christine  was  not  over-intelligent,  perhaps,  but 
she  was  shrewd.  That  Le  Moyne's  past  held  a  secret 
she  had  felt  from  the  beginn.ng.  She  sat  up  with  eager 
curiosity. 

"No,  not  mine.   Is  it  a  promise?" 

"Of  course." 

"I've  found  Tillie,  Christine.  I  want  you  to  go 
out  to  see  her." 

Christine's  red  lips  parted.  The  Street  did  not  go 
out  to  see  women  in  Tillie's  situation. 

"But,  K.!"  she  protested. 

"She  needs  another  woman  just  now.  She 's  going 
to  have  a  child,  Christine;  and  she  has  had  no  one 
to  talk  to  but  her  hus —  but  Mr.  Schwitter  and  my- 
self. She  is  depressed  and  not  very  well." 


"But  what  shall  I  say  to  her?  I'd  really  rather 
not  go,  K.  Not,"  she  hastened  to  set  herself  right  in 
his  eyes  --  "not  that  I  feel  any  unwillingness  to  see 
her.  I  know  you  understand  that.  But  —  what  in 
the  world  shall  I  say  to  her?" 

"Say  what  your  own  kind  heart  prompts." 

It  had  been  rather  a  long  time  since  Christine  had 
been  accused  of  having  a  kind  heart.  Not  that  she 
"was  unkind,  but  in  all  her  self-centered  young  life 
there  had  been  little  call  on  her  sympathies.  Her 
eyes  clouded. 

"  I  wish  I  were  as  good  as  you-  think  I  am." 

There  was  a  little  silence  between  them.  Then  Le 
Moyne  spoke  briskly:  — 

"I'll  tell  you  how  to  get  there;  perhaps  I  would 
better  write  it." 

He  moved  over  to  Christine's  small  writing-table 
and,  seating  himself,  p  -oceeded  to  write  out  the 
directions  for  reaching  Hillfoot. 

Behind  him,  Christine  had  taken  his  place  on  the 
hearth-rug  and  stood  watching  his  head  in  the  light 
of  the  desk-lamp.  "What  a  strong,  quiet  face  it  is,'y 
she  thought.  Why  did  she  get  the  impression  of  such 
a  tremendous  reserve  power  in  this  man  who  was  a 
clerk,  and  a  clerk  only?  Behind  him  she  made  a 
quick,  unconscious  gesture  of  appeal,  both  hands 
out  for  an  instant.  She  dropped  them  guiltily  as  K. 
rose  with  the  paper  in  his  hand. 

''I've  drawn  a  sort  of  map  of  the  roads,"  he  be- 
gan. "You  see,  this — " 

264 


K 


Christine  was  looking,  not  at  the  paper,  but  up  at 
him. 

"I  wonder  if  you  know,  K.,"  she  said,  "what 
a  lucky  woman  the  woman  will  be  who  marries 
you?" 

He  laughed  good-humoredly. 

"I  wonder  how  long  I  could  hypnotize  her  into 
thinking  that." 

He  was  still  holding  out  the  paper. 

"  I  Ve  had  time  to  do  a  little  thinking  lately,"  she 
said,  without  bitterness.  "Palmer  is  away  so  much 
now.  I  Ve  been  looking  back,  wondering  if  I  ever 
thought  that  about  him.  I  don't  believe  I  ever  did. 
I  wonder  — " 

She  checked  herself  abruptly  and  took  the  paper 
from  his  hand. 

"I'll  go  to  see  Tillie,  of  course,"  she  consented. 
"It  is  like  you  to  have  found  her." 

She  sat  down.  Although  she  picked  up  the  book 
that  she  had  been  reading  with  the  evident  inten- 
tion of  discussing  it,  her  thoughts  were  still  on  Tillie, 
on  Palmer,  on  herself.  After  a  moment:  — 

"Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  how  terribly  mixed 
up  things  are?  Take  this  Street,  for  instance.  Can 
you  think  of  anybody  on  it  that  —  that  things  have 
gone  entirely  right  with?" 

"  It's  a  little  world  of  its  own,  of  course,"  said  K., 
"and  it  has  plenty  of  contact  points  with  life.  But 
wherever  one  finds  people,  many  or  few,  one  finds 
all  the  elements  that  make  up  life  —  joy  and  sorrow, 

265 


birth  and  death,  and  even  tragedy.    That's  rather 
trite,  isn't  it?" 

Christine  was  still  pursuing  her  thoughts. 

"Men  are  different,"  she  said.  "To  a  certain  ex- 
tent they  make  their  own  fates.  But  when  you  think 
of  the  women  on  the  Street,  —  Tillie,  Harriet  Ken- 
nedy, Sidney  Page,  myself,  even  Mrs.  Rosenfeld 
back  in  the  alley,  —  somebody  else  moulds  things 
for  us,  and  all  we  can  do  is  to  sit  back  and  suffer.  I 
am  beginning  to  think  the  world  is  a  terrible  place, 
K.  Why  do  people  so  often  marry  the  wrong  people? 
Why  can't  a  man  care  for  one  woman  and  only  one 
all  his  life?  Why  —  why  is  it  all  so  complicated?" 

"There  are  men  who  care  for  only  one  woman  all 
their  lives." 

"You're  that  sort,  are  n't  you?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  put  myself  on  any  pinnacle.  li 
I  cared  enough  for  a  woman  to  marry  her,  I  'd  hope 
to  —  But  we  are  being  very  tragic,  Christine." 

"I  feel  tragic.  There's  going  to  be  another  mis- 
take, K.,  unless  you  stop  it." 

He  tried  to  leaven  the  conversation  with  a  little 
fun. 

"If  you're  going  to  ask  me  to  interfere  between 
Mrs.  McKee  and  the  deaf-and-dumb  book  and  in- 
surance agent,  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  She 
can  both  speak  and  hear  enough  for  both  of  them." 

"I  mean  Sidney  and  Max  Wilson.  He's  mad 
about  her,  K.;  and,  because  she's  the  sort  she  is, 
he'll  probably  be  mad  about  her  all  his  life,  even  if 

266 


he  marries  her.  But  he'll  not  be  true  to  her;  I  know 
the  type  now." 

K.  leaned  back  with  a  flicker  of  pain  in  his 
eyes. 

"What  can  I  do  about  it?" 

Astute  as  he  was,  he  did  not  suspect  that  Chris- 
tine was  using  this  method  to  fathom  his  feeling  for 
Sidney.  Perhaps  she  hardly  knew  it  herself. 

"You  might  marry  her  yourself,  K." 

But  he  had  himself  in  hand  by  this  time,  and  she 
learned  nothing  from  either  his  voice  or  his  eyes. 

"On  twenty  dollars  a  week?  And  without  so  much 
as  asking  her  consent?"  He  dropped  his  light  tone. 
"I'm  not  in  a  position  to  marry  anybody.  Even  if 
Sidney  cared  for  me,  which  she  does  n't,  of  course  — 

"Then  you  don't  intend  to  interfere?  You're  go- 
ing to  let  the  Street  see  another  failure?" 

"I  think  you  can  understand,"  said  K.  rather 
wearily,  "that  if  I  cared  less,  Christine,  it  would  be 
easier  to  interfere." 

After  all,  Christine  had  known  this,  or  surmised 
it,  for  weeks.  But  it  hurt  like  a  fresh  stab  in  an  old 
wound.  It  was  K.  who  spoke  again  after  a  pause:  — 

' '  The  deadly  hard  thing,  of  course,  is  to  sit  by  and 
see  things  happening  that  one  —  that  one  would 
naturally  try  to  prevent." 

"I  don't  believe  that  you  have  always  been  of 
those  who  only  stand  and  wait,"  said  Christine. 
"Sometime,  K.,  when  you  know  me  better  and  like 
me  better,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  about  it,  will  you?  " 

267 


"There's  very  little  to  tell.  I  held  a  trust.  When 
I  discovered  that  I  was  unfit  to  hold  that  trust  any 
longer,  I  quit.  That's  all." 

His  tone  of  finality  closed  the  discussion.  But 
Christine's  eyes  were  on  him  often  that  evening, 
puzzled,  rather  sad. 

They  talked  of  books,  of  music  —  Christine  played 
well  in  a  dashing  way.  K.  had  brought  her  soft, 
tender  little  things,  and  had  stood  over  her  until  her 
noisy  touch  became  gentle.  She  played  for  him  a 
little,  while  he  sat  back  in  the  big  chair  with  his 
hand  screening  his  eyes. 

When,  at  last,  he  rose  and  picked  up  his  cap,  it 
was  nine  o'clock. 

"I've  taken  your  whole  evening,"  he  said  re- 
morsefully. "Why  don't  you  tell  me  I  am  a  nuisance 
and  send  me  off?" 

Christine  was  still  at  the  piano,  her  hands  on  the 
keys.  She  spoke  without  looking  at  him :  — 

"You're  never  a  nuisance,  K.,  and  — " 

"You'll  go  out  to  see  Tillie,  won't  you?" 

"Yes.  But  I'll  not  go  under  false  pretenses.  I 
am  going  quite  frankly  because  you  want  me  to." 

Something  in  her  tone  caught  his  attention. 

"  I  forgot  to  tell  you,"  she  went  on.  "  Father  has 
given  Palmer  five  thousand  dollars.  He's  going  to 
buy  a  share  in  a  business." 

"That's  fine." 

"Possibly.  I  don't  believe  much  in  Palmer's 
business  ventures." 

268 


Her  flat  tone  still  held  him.  Underneath  it  he  di- 
vined strain  and  repression. 

"  I  hate  to  go  and  leave  you  alone,"  he  said  at  last 
from  the  door.  "Have  you  any  idea  when  Palmer 
will  be  back?" 

"Not  the  slightest.  K.,  will  you  come  here  a  mo- 
ment? Stand  behind  me;  I  don't  want  to  see  you, 
and  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

He  did  as  she  bade  him,  rather  puzzled. 

"Here  I  am." 

"  I  think  I  am  a  fool  for  saying  this.  Perhaps  I  am 
spoiling  the  only  chance  I  have  to  get  any  happiness 
out  of  life.  But  I  have  got  to  say  it.  It's  stronger 
than  I  am.  I  was  terribly  unhappy,  K.,  and  then 
you  came  into  my  life,  and  I  —  now  I  listen  for  your 
step  in  the  hall.  I  can't  be  a  hypocrite  any  longer, 
K." 

When  he  stood  behind  her,  silent  and  not  moving, 
she  turned  slowly  about  and  faced  him.  He  towered 
there  in  the  little  room,  grave  eyes  on  hers. 

"  It's  a  long  time  since  I  have  had  a  woman  friend, 
Christine,"  he  said  soberly.  "Your  friendship  has 
meant  a  good  deal.  In  a  good  many  ways,  I  'd  not 
care  to  look  ahead  if  it  were  not  for  you.  I  value  our 
friendship  so  much  that  I  - 

"That  you  don't  want  me  to  spoil  it,"  she  finished 
for  him.  "  I  know  you  don't  care  for  me,  K.,  not  the 
way  I —  But  I  wanted  you  to  know.  It  does  n't  hurt 
a  good  man  to  know  such  a  thing.  And  it  —  is  n't 
going  to  stop  your  coming  here,  is  it?" 

269 


ft 


'Of  course  not,"  said  K.  heartily.  "But  to-mor- 
row, when  we  are  both  clear-headed,  we  will  talk 
this  over.  You  are  mistaken  about  this  thing,  Chris- 
tine; I  am  sure  of  that.  Things  have  not  been  going 
well,  and  just  because  I  am  always  around,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  you  think  things  that  are  n't 
really  so.  I'm  only  a  reaction,  Christine." 

He  tried  to  make  her  smile  up  at  him.  But  just 
then  she  could  not  smile. 

If  she  had  cried,  things  might  have  been  different 
for  every  one ;  for  perhaps  K.  would  have  taken  her 
in  his  arms.  He  was  heart-hungry  enough,  those 
days,  for  anything.  And  perhaps,  too,  being  intui- 
tive, Christine  felt  this.  But  she  had  no  mind  to 
force  him  into  a  situation  against  his  will. 

"It  is  because  you  are  good,"  she  said,  and  held 
out  her  hand.  "Good-night." 

Le  Moyne  took  it  and  bent  over  and  kissed  it 
lightly.  There  was  in  the  kiss  all  that  he  could  not 
say  of  respect,  of  affection  and  understanding. 

"Good-night,  Christine,"  he  said,  and  went  into 
the  hall  and  upstairs. 

The  lamp  was  not  lighted  in  his  room,  but  the 
street  light  glowed  through  the  windows.  Once  again 
the  waving  fronds  of  the  ailanthus  tree  flung  ghostly 
shadows  on  the  walls.  There  was  a  faint  sweet  odor 
of  blossoms,  so  soon  to  become  rank  and  heavy. 

Over  the  floor  in  a  wild  zigzag  darted  a  strip  of 
white  paper  which  disappeared  under  the  bureau. 
Reginald  was  building  another  nest. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

SIDNEY  went  into  the  operating-room  late  in  the 
•spring  as  the  result  of  a  conversation  between  the 
younger  Wilson  and  the  Head. 

"When  are  you  going  to  put  my  protegee  into 
the  operating-room?"  asked  Wilson,  meeting  Miss 
-Gregg  in  a  corridor  one  bright  spring  afternoon. 

"That  usually  comes  in  the  second  yeart  Dr.  Wil- 
son." 

He  smiled  down  at  her.  "That  is  u"c  a  rule,  is 
it?" 

"Not  exactly.  Miss  Page  is  ver>-  young,  and  of 
course  there  are  other  girls  who  have  not  yet  had  the 
-experience.  But,  if  you  make  the  request  — " 

"  I  am  going  to  have  some  good  cases  soon.  I'll 
not  make  a  request,  of  course;  but,  if  you  see  fit,  it 
-would  be  good  training  for  Miss  Page." 

Miss  Gregg  went  on,  knowing  perfectly  that  at  his 
next  operation  Dr.  WTilson  would  expect  Sidney  Page 
in  the  operating-room.  The  other  doctors  were  not 
so  exigent.  She  would  have  liked  to  have  all  the  staff 
old  and  settled,  like  Dr.  O'Hara  or  the  older  Wilson. 
These  young  men  came  in  and  tore  things  up. 

She  sighed  as  she  went:  on.  There  were  so  many 
things  to  go  wrong.  The  butter  had  been  bad  —  she 
must  speak  to  the  matron.  The  sterilizer  in  the 
operating-room  was  out  of  order  —  that  meant  a 

271 


quarrel  with  the  chief  engineer.  Requisitions  were 
too  heavy  —  that  meant  going  around  to  the  wards 
and  suggesting  to  the  head  nurses  that  lead  pencils 
and  bandages  and  adhesive  plaster  and  safety-pins 
cost  money. 

It  was  particularly  inconvenient  to  move  Sidney 
just  then.  Carlotta  Harrison  was  off  duty,  ill.  She 
had  been  ailing  for  a  month,  and  now  she  was  down 
with  a  temperature.  As  the  Head  went  toward  Sid- 
ney's ward,  her  busy  mind  was  playing  her  nurses  in 
their  wards  like  pieces  on  a  checkerboard. 

Sidney  went  into  the  operating-room  that  after- 
noon. For  her  blue  uniform,  kerchief,  and  cap  she 
exchanged  the  hideous  operating-room  garb:  long, 
straight  white  gown  with  short  sleeves  and  mob-cap, 
gray-white  from  many  sterilizations.  But  the  ugly 
costume  seemed  to  emphasize  her  beauty,  as  the 
habit  of  a  nun  often  brings  out  the  placid  saintliness 
of  her  face. 

The  relationship  between  Sidney  and  Max  had 
reached  that  point  that  occurs  in  all  relationships 
between  men  and  women :  when  things  must  either 
go  forward  or  go  back,  but  cannot  remain  as  they 
are.  The  condition  had  existed  for  the  last  three 
months.  It  exasperated  the  man. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Wilson  could  not  go  ahead. 
The  situation  with  Carlotta  had  become  tense,  irri- 
tating. He  felt  that  she  stood  ready  to  block  any 
move  he  made.  He  would  not  go  back,  and  he  dared 
not  go  forward. 

372 


K 


If  Sidney  was  puzzled,  she  kept  it  bravely  to  her- 
self. In  her  little  room  at  night,  with  the  door  care- 
fully locked,  she  tried  to  think  things  out.  There 
were  a  few  treasures  that  she  looked  over  regularly: 
a  dried  flower  from  the  Christmas  roses;  a  label  that 
he  had  pasted  playfully  on  the  back  of  her  hand  one 
day  after  the  rush  of  surgical  dressings  was  over  and 
which  said:  "!£,  Take  once  and  forever." 

There  was  another  piece  of  paper  over  which  Sid- 
ney spent  much  time.  It  was  a  page  torn  out  of  an 
order  book,  and  it  read:  "Sigsbee  may  have  light 
diet;  Rosenfeld  massage."  Underneath  was  written, 
very  small :  — 

"  You  are  the  most  beautiful  person  in  the  world." 

Two  reasons  had  prompted  Wilson  to  request  to 
have  Sidney  in  the  operating-room.  He  wanted  her 
with  him,  and  he  wanted  her  to  see  him  at  work:  the 
age-old  instinct  of  the  male  to  have  his  woman  see 
him  at  his  best. 

He  was  in  high  spirits  that  first  day  of  Sidney's 
operating-room  experience.  For  the  time  at  least, 
Carlotta  was  out  of  the  way.  Her  somber  eyes  no 
longer  watched  him.  Once  he  looked  up  from  his 
work  and  glanced  at  Sidney  where  she  stood  at 
strained  attention. 

"Feeling  faint?"  he  said. 

She  colored  under  the  eyes  that  were  turned  on 
her. 

"No,  Dr.  Wilson." 

273 


"A  great  many  of  them  faint  on  the  first  day.  We 
sometimes  have  them  lying  all  over  the  floor." 

He  challenged  Miss  Gregg  with  his  eyes,  and  she 
reproved  him  with  a  shake  of  her  head,  as  she  might 
a  bad  boy. 

One  way  and  another,  he  managed  to  turn  the 
attertion  of  the  operating-room  to  Sidney  several 
times.  It  suited  his  whim,  and  it  did  more  than  that: 
it  gave  him  a  chance  to  speak  to  her  in  his  teasing 
way. 

Sidney  came  through  the  operation  as  if  she  had 
been  through  fire  —  taut  as  a  string,  rather  pale, 
but  undaunted.  But  when  the  last  case  had  been 
taken  out,  Max  dropped  his  bantering  manner.  The 
internes  were  looking  over  instruments;  the  nurses 
were  busy  on  the  hundred  and  one  tasks  of  clearing 
up ;  so  he  had  a  chance  for  a  word  with  her  alone. 

"  I  am  proud  of  you,  Sidney;  you  came  through  it 
like  a  soldier." 

"You  made  it  very  hard  for  me." 

A  nurse  was  coming  toward  him;  he  had  only  a 
moment. 

"I  shall  leave  a  note  in  the  mail-box,"  he 
said  quickly,  and  proceeded  with  the  scrubbing 
of  his  hands  which  signified  the  end  of  the  day's 
work. 

The  operations  had  lasted  until  late  in  the  after- 
noon. The  night  nurses  had  taken  up  their  stations; 
prayers  were  over.  The  internes  were  gathered  in 
the  smoking-room,  threshing  over  the  day's  work,  a? 

274 


was  their  custom.    When  Sidney  was  free,  she  went 
to  the  office  for  the  note.   It  was  very  brief:  — 

I  have  something  I  want  to  say  to  you,  dear.  I 
think  you  know  what  it  is.  I  never  see  you  alone  at 
home  any  more.  If  you  can  get  off  for  an  hour,  won't 
you  take  the  trolley  to  the  end  of  Division  Street? 
I'll  be  there  with  the  car  at  eight-thirty,  and  I 
promise  to  have  you  back  by  ten  o'clock. 

MAX. 

The  office  was  empty.  No  one  saw  her  as  she 
stood  by  the  mail-box.  The  ticking  of  the  office 
clock,  the  heavy  rumble  of  a  dray  outside,  the  roll  of 
the  ambulance  as  it  went  out  through  the  gateway, 
and  in  her  hand  the  realization  of  what  she  had 
never  confessed  as  a  hope,  even  to  herself!  He,  the 
great  one,  was  going  to  stoop  to  her.  It  had  been  in 
his  eyes  that  afternoon;  it  was  there,  in  his  letter, 
now. 

It  was  eight  by  the  office  clock.  To  get  out  of  her 
uniform  and  into  street  clothing,  fifteen  minutes;  or? 
the  trolley,  another  fifteen.  She  would  need  to  hurry. 

But  she  did  not  meet  him,  after  all.  Miss  Ward- 
well  met  her  in  the  upper  hall. 

" Did  you  get  my  message?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"What  message?" 

"Miss  Harrison  wants  to  see  you.  She  has  been 
moved  to  a  private  room." 

Sidney  glanced  at  K.'s  little  watch. 

275 


"Must  she  see  me  to-night?" 

"She  has  been  waiting  for  hours  —  ever  since  you 
went  to  the  operating-room." 

Sidney  sighed,  but  she  went  to  Carlotta  at  once. 
The  girl's  condition  was  puzzling  the  staff.  There 
was  talk  of  "T.  R."  — which  is  hospital  for  "ty- 
phoid restrictions."  But  T.  R.  has  apathy,  gener- 
ally, and  Carlotta  was  not  apathetic.  Sidney  found 
her  tossing  restlessly  on  her  high  white  bed,  and  put 
her  cool  hand  over  C arietta's  hot  one. 

"Did  you  send  for  me?" 

"Hours  ago."  Then,  seeing  her  operating-room 
uniform:  "You've  been  there,  have  you?" 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do,  Carlotta?" 

Excitement  had  dyed  Sidney's  cheeks  with  color 
itid  made  her  eyes  luminous.  The  girl  in  the  bed 
eyed  her,  and  then  abruptly  drew  her  hand  away. 

"Were  you  going  out?" 

"Yes;  but  not  right  away." 

"I'll  not  keep  you  if  you  have  an  engagement." 

"The  engagement  will  have  to  wait.  I'm  sorry 
you  're  ill.  If  you  would  like  me  to  stay  with  you  to- 
night-" 

Carlotta  shook  her  head  on  her  pillow. 

" Mercy,  no!"  she  said  irritably.  "  I'm  only  worn- 
out.  I  need  a  rest.  Are  you  going  home  to-night?" 

"No,"  Sidney  admitted,  and  flushed. 

Nothing  escaped  Carlotta' s  eyes  —  the  younger 
girl's  radiance,  her  confusion,  even  her  operating- 
room  uniform  and  what  it  signified.  How  she  hated 

276 


her,  with  her  youth  and  freshness,  her  wide  eyes,  her 
soft  red  lips!  And  this  engagement —  she  had  the 
uncanny  divination  of  fury. 

"  I  was  going  to  ask  you  to  do  something  for  me," 
she  said  shortly;  "but  I've  changed  my  mind  about 
it.  Go  on  and  keep  your  engagement." 

To  end  the  interview,  she  turned  over  and  lay 
with  her  face  to  the  wall.  Sidney  stood  waiting  un- 
certainly. All  her  training  had  been  to  ignore  the  ir- 
ritability of  the  sick,  and  Carlotta  was  very  ill ;  she 
could  see  that. 

"Just  remember  that  I  am  ready  to  do  anything 
I  can,  Carlotta,"  she  said.  "Nothing  will  —  will  be 
a  trouble." 

She  waited  a  moment,  but,  receiving  no  acknowl- 
edgement of  her  offer,  she  turned  slowly  and  went 
toward  the  door. 

"Sidney!" 

She  went  back  to  the  bed. 

"Yes.   Don't  sit  up,  Carlotta.  What  is  it?" 

"I'm  frightened!" 

"You're  feverish  and  nervous.  There's  nothing 
to  be  frightened  about." 

"If  it's  typhoid,  I'm  gone." 

"That's  childish.  Of  course  you're  not  gone,  or 
anything  like  it.  Besides,  it 's  probably  not  typhoid." 

" I'm  afraid  to  sleep.  I  doze  for  a  little,  and  when 
I  waken  there  are  people  in  the  room.  They  stand 
around  the  bed  and  talk  about  me." 

Sidney's  precious  minutes  were  flying;  but  Car- 
277 


lotta  had  gone  into  a  paroxysm  of  terror,  holding  to 
Sidney's  hand  and  begging  not  to  be  left  alone. 

"  I  'm  too  young  to  die,"  she  would  whimper.  And 
in  the  next  breath :  "  I  want  to  die  —  I  don't  want  to 
live!" 

The  hands  of  the  little  watch  pointed  to  eight- 
thirty  when  at  last  she  lay  quiet,  with  closed  eyes. 
Sidney,  tiptoeing  to  the  door,  was  brought  up  short 
by  her  name  again,  this  time  in  a  more  normal 
voice:  — 

"Sidney." 

"Yes,  dear." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right  and  I  'm  going  to  get  over 
this." 

"Certainly  you  are.  Your  nerves  are  playing 
tricks  with  you  to-night." 

"I'll  tell  you  now  why  I  sent  for  you." 

"I'm  listening." 

"If  —  if  I  get  very  bad, — you  know  what  I 
mean,  —  will  you  promise  to  do  exactly  what  I  tell 
you?" 

"I  promise,  absolutely." 

"My  trunk  key  is  in  my  pocket-book.  There  is  a 
letter  in  the  tray  —  just  a  name,  no  address  on  it. 
Promise  to  see  that  h.  is  not  delivered;  that  it  is  de- 
stroyed without  being  read." 

Sidney  promised  promptly;  and,  because  it  was 
too  late  now  for  her  meeting  with  Wilson,  for  the 
next  hour  she  devoted  herself  to  making  Carlotta 
comfortable.  So  long  as  she  was  busy,  a  sort  of  ex~ 

278 


altation  of  service  upheld  her.  But  when  at  last  the 
night  assistant  came  to  sit  with  the  sick  girl,  and  Sid- 
ney was  free,  all  the  life  faded  from  her  face.  He  had 
waited  for  her  and  she  had  not  come.  Would  he  un- 
derstand? Would  he  ask  her  to  meet  him  again7 
Perhaps,  after  all,  his  question  had  not  been  what 
she  had  thought. 

She  went  miserably  to  bed.  K.'s  little  watch 
ticked  under  her  pillow.  Her  stiff  cap  moved  in  the 
breeze  as  it  swung  from  the  corner  of  her  mirror. 
Under  her  window  passed  and  repassed  the  night  life 
of  the  city  —  taxicabs,  stealthy  painted  women, 
tired  office-cleaners  trudging  home  at  midnight,  a 
city  patrol-wagon  which  rolled  in  through  the  gates 
to  the  hospital's  always  open  door.  When  she  could 
not  sleep,  she  got  up  and  padded  to  the  window  in 
bare  feet.  The  light  from  a  passing  machine  showed 
a  youthful  figure  that  looked  like  Joe  Drummond. 

Life,  that  had  always  seemed  so  simple,  was  grow- 
ing very  complicated  for  Sidney :  Joe  and  K.,  Palmer 
and  Christine,  Johnny  Rosenfeld,  Carlotta  —  either 
lonely  or  tragic,  all  of  them,  or  both.  Life  in  the  raw. 

Toward  morning  Carlotta  wakened.  The  night 
assistant  was  still  there.  It  had  been  a  quiet  night, 
and  she  was  asleep  in  her  chair.  To  save  her  cap  she 
had  taken  it  off,  and  early  streaks  of  silver  showed  in 
her  hair. 

Carlotta  roused  her  ruthlessly. 

"  I  want  something  from  my  trunk,"  she  said. 

The  assistant  wakened  reluctantly,  and  looked 
279 


at  her  watch.     Almost  morning.   She  yawned  and 
pinned  on  her  cap. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,"  she  protested.  "You  don't 
want  me  to  go  to  the  trunk-room  at  this  hour!" 

"  I  can  go  myself,"  said  Carlotta,  and  put  her  feet 
out  of  bed. 

"What  is  it  you  want?" 

"A  letter  on  the  top  tray.  If  I  wait  my  tempera- 
ture will  go  up  and  I  can't  think." 

"Shall  I  mail  it  for  you?" 

"Bring  it  here,"  said  Carlotta  shortly.  "'I  want 
to  destroy  it." 

The  young  woman  went  without  haste,  to  show 
that  a  night  assistant  may  do  such  things  out  of 
friendship,  but  not  because  she  must.  She  stopped 
at  the  desk  where  the  night  nurse  in  charge  of  the 
rooms  on  that  floor  was  filling  out  records. 

"Give  me  twelve  private  patients  to  look  after 
instead  of  one  nurse  like  Carlotta  Harrison!"  she 
complained.  "I've  got  to  go  to  the  trunk-room 
for  her  at  this  hour,  and  it  next  door  to  the  mor- 
tuary!" 

As  the  first  rays  of  the  summer  sun  came  through 
the  window,  shadowing  the  fire-escape  like  a  lattice 
on  the  wail  of  the  little  gray- walled  room,  Carlotta 
sat  up  in  her  bed  and  lighted  the  candle  on  the  stand. 
The  night  assistant,  who  dreamed  sometimes  of  fire, 
stood  nervously  by. 

"Why  don't  you  let  me  do  it?"  she  asked  irri« 
tably. 

280 


Carlotta  did  not  reply  at  once.  The  candle  was 
m  her  hand,  and  she  was  staring  at  the  letter. 

"  Because  I  want  to  do  it  myself,"  she  said  at  last, 
and  thrust  the  envelope  into  the  flame.  It  burned 
slowly,  at  first  a  thin  blue  flame  tipped  with  yellow, 
then,  eating  its  way  with  a  small  fine  crackling,  a 
widening,  destroying  blaze  that  left  behind  it  black 
ash  and  destruction.  The  acrid  odor  of  burning 
filled  the  room.  Not  until  it  was  consumed,  and  the 
black  ash  fell  into  the  saucer  of  the  candlestick,  did 
Carlotta  speak  again.  Then:  — 

"If  every  fool  of  a  woman  who  wrote  a  letter  burnt 
it,  there  would  be  less  trouble  in  the  world,"  she  said, 
and  lay  back  among  her  pillows. 

The  assistant  said  nothing.  She  was  sleepy  and 
irritated,  and  she  had  crushed  her  best  cap  by  letting 
the  lid  of  Carlotta's  trunk  fall  on  her.  She  went  out 
of  the  room  with  disapproval  in  every  line  of  her 
back. 

"She  burned  it,"  she  informed  the  night  nurse  at 
her  desk.  "A  letter  to  a  man  —  one  of  her  suitors,  I 
suppose.  The  name  was  K.  Le  Moyne." 

The  deepening  and  broadening  of  Sidney's  char- 
acter had  been  very  noticeable  in  the  last  few  months. 
She  had  gained  in  decision  without  becoming  hard ; 
had  learned  to  see  things  as  they  are,  not  through 
the  rose  mist  of  early  girlhood;  and,  far  from  being 
daunted,  had  developed  a  philosophy  that  had  for  its 
basis  God  in  His  heaven  and  all  well  with  the  world, 

281 


But  her  new  theory  of  acceptance  did  not  com- 
prehend everything.  She  was  in  a  state  of  wild  re- 
volt, for  instance,  as  to  Johnny  Rosenfeld,  and  more 
remotely  but  not  less  deeply  concerned  over  Grace 
Irving.  Soon  she  was  to  learn  of  Tillie's  predicament, 
and  to  take  up  the  cudgels  valiantly  for  her. 

But  her  revolt  was  to  be  for  herself  too.  On  the 
day  after  her  failure  to  keep  her  appointment  with 
Wilson  she  had  her  half-holiday.  No  word  had  come 
from  him,  and  when,  after  a  restless  night,  she  went 
to  her  new  station  in.  the  operating-room,  it  was 
to  learn  that  he  had  been  called  out  of  the  city  in 
consultation  and  would  not  operate  that  day.  O'Hara 
would  take  advantage  of  the  free  afternoon  to  run 
in  some  odds  and  ends  of  cases. 

The  operating-room  made  gauze  that  morning, 
and  small  packets  of  tampons:  absorbent  cotton 
covered  with  sterilized  gauze,  and  fastened  together 
—  twelve,  by  careful  count,  in  each  bundle. 

Miss  Grange,  who  had  been  kind  to  Sidney  in  her 
probation  months,  taught  her  the  method. 

"Used  instead  of  sponges,"  she  explained.  "If 
you  noticed  yesterday,  they  were  counted  before 
and  after  each  operation.  One  of  these  missing  is 
worse  than  a  bank  clerk  out  a  dollar  at  the  end  of  the 
day.  There's  no  closing  up  until  it's  found!" 

Sidney  eyed  the  small  packet  before  her  anxiously. 

"What  a  hideous  responsibility!"  she  said. 

From  that  time  on  she  handled  the  small  gauze 
sponges  almost  reverently. 

282 


The  operating-room  —  all  glass,  white  enamel 
and  shining  nickel-plate  —  first  frightened,  then 
thrilled  her.  It  was  as  if,  having  loved  a  great  actor, 
she  now  trod  the  enchanted  boards  on  which  he 
achieved  his  triumphs.  She  was  glad  that  it  was  her 
afternoon  off,  and  that  she  would  not  see  some  lesser 
star  —  O'Hara,  to  wit  —  usurping  his  place. 

But  Max  had  not  sent  her  any  word.  That  hurt. 
He  must  have  known  that  she  had  been  delayed. 

The  operating-room  was  a  hive  of  industry,  and 
tongues  kept  pace  with  fingers.  The  hospital  was 
a  world,  like  the  Street.  The  nurses  had  come  from 
many  places,  and,  like  cloistered  nuns,  seemed  to 
have  left  the  other  world  behind.  A  new  President 
of  the  country  was  less  real  than  a  new  interne.  The 
country  might  wash  its  soiled  linen  in  public;  what 
was  that  compared  with  enough  sheets  and  towels 
for  the  wards?  Big  buildings  were  going  up  in  the 
city.  Ah!  but  the  hospital  took  cognizance  of  that, 
gathering  as  it  did  a  toll  from  each  new  story  added. 
What  news  of  the  world  came  in  through  the  great 
doors  was  translated  at  once  into  hospital  terms. 
What  the  city  forgot  the  hospital  remembered.  It 
took  up  life  where  the  town  left  it  at  its  gates,  and 
carried  it  on  or  saw  it  ended,  as  the  case  might  be.  So 
these  young  women  knew  the  ending  of  many  stories, 
the  beginning  of  some ;  but  of  none  did  they  know  both 
the  first  and  last,  the  beginning  and  the  end. 

By  many  small  kindnesses  Sidney  had  made  her- 
self popular.  And  there  was  more  to  it  than  that. 

283 


She  never  shirked.  The  other  girls  had  the  respect 
for  her  of  one  honest  worker  for  another.  The  epi- 
sode that  had  caused  her  suspension  seemed  en- 
tirely forgotten.  They  showed  her  carefully  what 
she  was  to  do;  and,  because  she  must  know  the 
"why"  of  everything,  they  explained  as  best  they 
could. 

It  was  while  she  was  standing  by  the  great  steril- 
izer that  she  heard,  through  an  open  door,  part  of 
a  conversation  that  sent  her  through  the  day  with 
her  world  in  revolt. 

The  talkers  were  putting  the  ansesthetizing-room 
in  readiness  for  the  afternoon.  Sidney,  waiting  for 
the  time  to  open  the  sterilizer,  was  busy,  for  the 
first  time  in  her  hurried  morning,  with  her  own 
thoughts.  Because  she  was  very  human,  there  was  a 
little  exultation  in  her  mind.  What  would  these  girls 
say  when  they  learned  of  how  things  stood  between 
her  and  their  hero  —  that,  out  of  all  his  world  of 
society  and  clubs  and  beautiful  women,  he  was 
going  to  choose  her? 

Not  shameful,  this:  the  honest  pride  of  a  woman 
in  being  chosen  from  many. 

The  voices  were  very  clear. 

"Typhoid!  Of  course  not.  She 's  eating  her  heart 
out." 

"Do  you  think  he  has  really  broken  with  her?" 
"Probably  not.    She  knows  it's  coming:  that's 
all." 

"Sometimes  I  have  wondered  — " 

284 


"So  have  others.  She  ought  n't  to  be  here,  of 
course.  But  among  so  many  there  is  bound  to  be 
one  now  and  then  who  —  who  is  n't  quite  — 

She  hesitated,  at  a  loss  for  a  word. 

"  Did  you  —  did  you  ever  think  over  that  trouble 
with  Miss  Page  about  the  medicines?  That  would 
have  been  easy,  and  like  her." 

"She  hates  Miss  Page,'  of  course,  but  I  hardly 
think  —  If  that's  true,  it  was  nearly  murder." 

There  were  two  voices,  a  young  one,  full  of  soft 
Southern  inflections,  and  an  older  voice,  a  trifle 
hard,  as  from  disillusion. 

They  were  working  as  they  talked.  Sidney  could 
hear  the  clatter  of  bottles  on  the  tray,  the  scraping 
of  a  moved  table. 

"He  was  crazy  about  her  last  fall." 

"Miss  Page?"  (The  younger  voice,  with  a  thrill 
in  it.) 

"Carlotta.   Of  course  this  is  confidential." 

"Surely." 

"  I  saw  her  with  him  in  his  car  one  evening.  And 
on  her  vacation  last  summer  — 

The  voices  dropped  to  a  whisper.  Sidney,  stand- 
ing cold  and  white  by  the  sterilizer,  put  out  a  hand 
to  steady  herself.  So  that  was  it !  No  wonder  Car- 
lotta had  hated  her.  And  those  whispering  voices! 
What  were  they  saying?  How  hateful  life  was,  and 
men  and  women.  Must  there  always  be  something 
hideous  in  the  background?  Until  now  she  had  only 
seen  life.  Now  she  felt  its  hot  breath  on  her  cheek. 

285 


She  was  steady  enough  in  a  moment,  cool  and 
calm,  moving  about  her  work  with  ice-cold  hands 
and  slightly  narrowed  eyes.  To  a  sort  of  physical 
nausea  was  succeeding  anger,  a  blind  fury  of  injured 
pride.  He  had  been  in  love  with  Carlotta  and  had 
tired  of  her.  He  was  bringing  her  his  warmed-over 
emotions.  She  remembered  the  bitterness  of  her 
month's  exile,  and  its  probable  cause.  Max  had 
stood  by  her  then.  Well  he  might,  if  he  suspected 
the  truth. 

For  just  a  moment  she  had  an  illuminating  flash 
of  Wilson  as  he  really  was,  selfish  and  self-indulgent, 
just  a  trifle  too  carefully  dressed,  daring  as  to  eye 
and  speech,  with  a  carefully  calculated  daring, 
frankly  pleasure-loving.  She  put  her  hands  over 
her  eyes. 

The  voices  in  the  next  room  had  risen  above  their 
whisper. 

"Genius  has  privileges,  of  course,"  said  the  older 
voice.  "  He  is  a  very  great  surgeon.  To-morrow  he 
is  to  do  the  Edwardes  operation  again.  I  am  glad  I 
am  to  see  him  do  it." 

Sidney  still  held  her  hands  over  her  eyes.  He  was 
a  great  surgeon:  in  his  hands  he  held  the  keys  of 
life  and  death.  And  perhaps  he  had  never  cared  for 
Carlotta:  she  might  have  thrown  herself  at  him.  He 
was  a  man,  at  the  mercy  of  any  scheming  woman. 

She  tried  to  summon  his  image  to  her  aid.  But 
a  curious  thing  happened.  She  could  not  visualize 
him.  Instead,  there  came,  clear  and  distinct,  a 

286 


K 


picture  of  K.  Le  Moyne  in  the  hall  of  the  little  house, 
reaching  one  of  his  long  arms  to  the  ch  /mdelier  over 
his  head  and  looking  up  at  her  as  she  stood  on  th< 
stairs. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

"Mv  God,  Sidney,  I'm  asking  you  to  marry 
me!" 

"I  —  I  know  that.  I  am  asking  you  something 
else,  Max." 

"  I  have  never  been  in  love  with  her." 

His  voice  was  sulky.  He  had  drawn  the  car  close 
to  a  bank,  and  they  were  sitting  in  the  shade,  on 
the  grass.  It  was  the  Sunday  afternoon  after  Sid- 
ney's experience  in  the  operating-room. 

"You  took  her  out,  Max,  did  n't  you?" 

"A  few  times,  yes.  She  seemed  to  have  no  friends. 
I  was,  sorry  for  her." 

"That  was  all?" 

"Absolutely.  Good  Heavens,  you've  put  me 
through  a  catechism  in  the  last  ten  minutes!" 

"If  my  father  were  living,  or  even  mother,  I  — 
one  of  them  would  have  done  this  for  me,  Max.  I  'm 
sorry  I  had  to.  I  Ve  been  very  wretched  for  several 
days." 

It  was  the  first  encouragement  she  had  given 
him.  There  was  no  coquetry  about  her  aloofness. 
It  was  only  that  her  faith  in  him  had  had  a  shock 
and  was  slow  of  reviving. 

"You  are  very,  very  lovely,  Sidney.  I  wonder 
if  you  have  any  idea  what  you  mean  to  me?" 

"You  meant  a  great  deal  to  me,  too,"  she  said 
288 


frankly,  *'  until  a  few  days  ago.  I  thought  you  were 
the  greatest  man  I  had  ever  known,  and  the  best. 
And  then —  I  think  I  'd  better  tell  you  what  I  over- 
heard. I  did  n't  try  to  hear.  It  just  happened  that 
way." 

He  listened  doggedly  to  her  account  of  the  hos- 
pital gossip,  doggedly  and  with  a  sinking  sense  of 
fear,  not  of  the  talk,  but  of  Carlotta  herself.  Usu- 
ally one  might  count  on  the  woman's  silence,  her 
instinct  for  self-protection.  But  Carlotta  was  dif- 
ferent. Damn  the  girl,  anyhow!  She  had  known 
from  the  start  that  the  affair  was  a  temporary  one; 
he  had  never  pretended  anything  else. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  after  Sidney 
finished.  Then:  — 

"You  are  not  a  child  any  longer,  Sidney.  You 
have  learned  a  great  deal  in  this  last  year.  One  of  the 
things  you  know  is  that  almost  every  man  has  small 
affairs,  many  of  them  sometimes,  before  he  finds  the 
woman  he  wants  to  marry.  When  he  finds  her,  the 
others  are  all  off  —  there's  nothing  to  them.  It's 
the  real  thing  then,  instead  of  the  sham." 

"Palmer  was  very  much  in  love  with  Christine, 
and  yet  — 

"  Palmer  is  a  cad." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think  I'm  making  terms. 
I  'm  not.  But  if  this  thing  went  on,  and  I  found  out 
afterward  that  you  —  that  there  was  any  one  else, 
it  would  kill  me." 

"Then  you  care,  after  all!" 
289 


There  was  something  boyish  in  his  triumph,  in  the 
very  gesture  with  which  he  held  out  his  arms,  like  a 
child  who  has  escaped  a  whipping.  He  stood  up  and, 
catching  her  hands,  drew  her  to  her  feet.  "You 
iove  me,  dear." 

"I'm  afraid  I  do,  Max." 

"Then  I'm  yours,  and  only  yours,  if  you  want 
me,"  he  said,  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

He  was  riotously  happy,  must  hold  her  off  for 
the  joy  of  drawing  her  to  him  again,  must  pull  off 
her  gloves  and  kiss  her  soft  bare  palms. 

"  I  love  you,  love  you!"  he  cried,  and  bent  down 
to  bury  his  face  in  the  warm  hollow  of  her  neck. 

Sidney  glowed  under  his  caresses  —  was  rather 
startled  at  his  passion,  a  little  ashamed. 

"Tell  me  you  love  me  a  little  bit.   Say  it." 

"I  love  you,"  said  Sidney,  and  flushed  scarlet. 

But  even  in  his  arms,  with  the  warm  sunlight  o*. 
his  radiant  face,  with  his  lips  to  her  ear,  whispering 
the  divine  absurdities  of  passion,  in  the  back  of  her 
obstinate  little  head  was  the  thought  that,  while 
she  had  given  him  her  first  embrace,  he  had  held 
other  women  in  his  arms.  It  made  her  passive,  pre- 
vented her  complete  surrender. 

And  after  a  time  he  resented  it.  "You  are  only 
letting  me  love  you,"  he  complained.  "I  don't  be- 
lieve you  care,  after  all." 

He  freed  her,  took  a  step  back  from  her. 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  jealous,"  she  said  simply.  "I 
keep  thinking  of  —  of  Carlotta." 

290 


K 


"Will  it  help  any  if  I  swear  that  that  is  off  ab- 
solutely?" 

"Don't  be  absurd.  It  is  enough  to  have  you  say 
so." 

But  he  insisted  on  swearing,  standing  with  one 
hand  upraised,  his  eyes  on  her.  The  Sunday  land- 
scape was  very  still,  save  for  the  hum  of  busy  insect 
life.  A  mile  or  so  away,  at  the  foot  of  two  hills, 
lay  a  white  farmhouse  with  its  barn  and  outbuild- 
ings. In  a  small  room  in  the  barn  a  woman  sat;  and 
because  it  was  Sunday,  and  she  could  not  sew,  she 
read  her  Bible. 

" — and  that  ?fter  this  there  will  be  only  one 
woman  for  me,"  finished  Max,  and  dropped  his 
hand.  He  bent  over  and  kissed  Sidney  on  the 
lips. 

At  the  white  farmhouse,  a  little  man  stood  in  the 
doorway  and  surveyed  the  road  with  eyes  shaded  by 
a  shirt-sleeved  arm.  Behind  him,  in  a  darkened 
room,  a  barkeeper  was  wiping  the  bar  with  a  clean 
cloth. 

"  I  guess  I  '11  go  and  get  my  coat  on,  Bill,"  said  the 
little  man  heavily.  "They're  starting  to  come  now. 
I  see  a  machine  about  a  mile  down  the  road." 

Sidney  broke  the  news  of  her  engagement  to  K. 
herself,  the  evening  of  the  same  day.  The  little 
house  was  quiet  when  she  got  out  of  the  car  at  the 
door.  Harriet  was  asleep  on  the  couch  at  the  foot  of 
her  bed,  and  Christine's  rooms  were  empty.  She 

291 


K 


found  Katie  on  the  back  porch,  mountains  of  Sun- 
day newspapers  piled  around  her. 

"I'd  about  give  you  up,"  said  Katie.  "I  was 
thinking,  rather  than  see  your  ice-cream  that 's  left 
from  dinner  melt  and  go  to  waste,  I  'd  take  it  around 
to  the  Rosenfelds." 

"Please  take  it  to  them.  I'd  really  rather  they 
had  it." 

She  stood  in  front  of  Katie,  drawing  off  her  gloves. 

"Aunt  Harriet's  asleep.  Is  —  is  Mr.  Le  Moyne 
around?" 

"You're  gettin'  prettier  every  day,  Miss  Sidney. 
Is  that  the  blue  suit  Miss  Harriet  said  she  made  for 
you?  It's  right  stylish.  I  'd  like  to  see  the  back." 

Sidney  obediently  turned,  and  Katie  admired. 

"When  I  think  how  things  have  turned  out!"  she 
reflected.  "You  in  a  hospital,  doing  God  knows 
what  for  all  sorts  of  people,  and  Miss  Harriet  mak- 
ing a  suit  like  that  and  asking  a  hundred  dollars  for 
it,  and  that  tony  that  a  person  does  n't  dare  to  speak 
to  her  when  she's  in  the  dining-room.  And  your 
poor  ma  ...  well,  it's  all  in  a  lifetime!  No;  Mr.  K.'s 
not  here.  He  and  Mrs.  Howe  are  gallivanting  around 
together." 

"Katie!" 

"Well,  that's  what  I  call  it.  I'm  not  blind.  Don't 
I  hear  her  dressing  up  about  four  o'clock  every  after- 
noon, and,  when  she's  all  ready,  sittin'  in  the  parlor 
with  the  door  open,  and  a  book  on  her  knee,  as  if 
she'd  been  reading  all  afternoon?  If  he  doesn't 

292 


stop,  she 's  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  calling  up  to  him. 
'K.,'  she  says,  'K.,  I'm  waiting  to  ask  you  some- 
thing!' or,  'K.,  wouldn't  you  like  a  cup  of  tea?' 
She's  always  feedin'  him  tea  and  cake,  so  that  when 
he  comes  to  table  he  won't  eat  honest  victuals." 

Sidney  had  paused  with  one  glove  half  off.  Katie's 
tone  carried  conviction.  Was  life  making  another  of 
its  queer  errors,  and  were  Christine  and  K.  in  love 
with  each  other?  K.  had  always  been  her  friend,  her 
confidant.  To  give  him  up  to  Christine  —  she  shook 
herself  impatiently.  What  had  come  over  her?  Why 
not  be  glad  that  he  had  some  sort  of  companionship? 

She  went  upstairs  to  the  room  that  had  been  her 
mother's,  and  took  off  her  hat.  She  wanted  to  be 
alone,  to  realize  what  had  happened  to  her.  She  did 
not  belong  to  herself  any  more.  It  gave  her  an  odd, 
lost  feeling.  She  was  going  to  be  married  —  not 
very  soon,  but  ultimately.  A  year  ago  her  half 
promise  to  Joe  had  gratified  her  sense  of  romance. 
She  was  loved,  and  she  had  thrilled  to  it. 

But  this  was  different.  Marriage,  that  had  been 
but  a  vision  then,  loomed  large,  almost  menacing. 
She  had  learned  the  law  of  compensation:  that  for 
every  joy  one  pays  in  suffering.  Women  who  mar- 
ried went  down  into  the  valley  of  death  for  their 
children.  One  must  love  and  be  loved  very  tenderly 
to  pay  for  that.  The  scale  must  balance. 

And  there  were  other  things.  Women  grew  old, 
and  age  was  not  always  lovely.  This  very  maternity 
' —  was  it  not  fatal  to  beauty?  Visions  of  child-bear- 

293 


ing  women  in  the  hospitals,  with  sagging  breasts  and 
relaxed  bodies,  came  to  her.  That  was  a  part  of  the 
price. 

Harriet  was  stirring,  across  the  hall.  Sidney  could 
hear  her  moving  about  with  flat,  inelastic  steps. 

That  was  the  alternative.  One  married,  happily 
or  not  as  the  case  might  be,  and  took  the  risk.  Or 
one  stayed  single,  like  Harriet,  growing  a  little  hard, 
exchanging  slimness  for  leanness  and  austerity  of 
figure,  flat-chested,  thin-voiced.  One  blossomed  and 
withered,  then,  or  one  shriveled  up  without  having 
flowered.  All  at  once  it  seemed  very  terrible  to  her. 
She  felt  as  if  she  had  been  caught  in  an  inexorable 
hand  that  had  closed  about  her. 

Harriet  found  her  a  little  later,  face  down  on  her 
mother's  bed,  crying  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 
She  scolded  her  roundly. 

"You've  been  overworking,"  she  said.  "You've 
been  getting  thinner.  Your  measurements  for  that 
suit  showed  it.  I  have  never  approved  of  this  hos- 
pital training,  and  after  last  January  — " 

She  could  hardly  credit  her  senses  when  Sidney, 
still  swollen  with  weeping,  told  her  of  her  engage- 
ment. 

"  But  I  don't  understand.  If  you  care  for  him  and 
he  has  asked  you  to  marry  him,  why  on  earth  are 
you  crying  your  eyes  out?" 

"I  do  care.  I  don't  know  why  I  cried.  It  just 
came  over  me,  all  at  once,  that  I  —  It  was  just  fool- 
ishness. I  am  very  happy,  Aunt  Harriet." 

294 


Harriet  thought  she  understood.  The  girl  needed 
her  mother,  and  she,  Harriet,  was  a  hard,  middle- 
aged  woman  and  a  poor  substitute.  She  patted  Sid- 
ney's moist  hand. 

"I  guess  I  understand,"  she  said.  "I'll  attend 
to  your  wedding  things,  Sidney.  We'll  show  this 
street  that  even  Christine  Lorenz  can  be  outdone." 
And,  as  an  afterthought:  "I  hope  Max  Wilson  will 
settle  down  now.  He's  been  none  too  steady." 

K.  had  taken  Christine  to  see  Tillie  that  Sunday 
afternoon.  Palmer  had  the  car  out  —  had,  indeed, 
not  been  home  since  the  morning  of  the  previous 
day.  He  played  golf  every  Saturday  afternoon  and 
Sunday  at  the  Country  Club,  and  invariably  spent 
the  night  there.  So  K.  and  Christine  walked  from 
the  end  of  the  trolley  line,  saying  little,  but  under 
K.'s  keen  direction  finding  bright  birds  in  the 
hedgerows,  hidden  field  flowers,  a  dozen  wonders  of 
the  country  that  Christine  had  never  dreamed  of. 

The  interview  with  Tillie  had  been  a  disappoint- 
ment to  K.  Christine,  with  the  best  and  kindliest 
intention^,  struck  a  wrong  note.  In  her  endeavor 
to  cover  the  fact  that  everything  in  Tillie' s  world 
was  wrong,  she  fell  into  the  error  of  pretending  that 
everything  was  right. 

Tillie,  grotesque  of  figure  and  tragic-eyed,  lis- 
tened to  her  patiently,  while  K.  stood,  uneasy  and 
uncomfortable,  in  the  wide  door  of  the  hay-barn  and 
washed  automobiles  turning  in  from  the  road 

295 


When  Christine  rose  to  leave,  she  confessed  her  fafr 
ure  frankly. 

"I've  meant  well,  Tillie,"  she  said.  "I'm  afraid 
I've  said  exactly  what  I  should  n't.  I  can  only  think 
that,  no  matter  what  is  wrong,  two  wonderfu? 
pieces  of  luck  have  come  to  you.  Your  husband  - 
that  is,  Mr.  Schwitter  —  cares  for  you,  —  you  ad- 
mit that,  —  and  you  are  going  to  have  a  child." 

rillie's  pale  eyes  filled. 

"I  used  to  be  a  good  woman,  Mrs.  Howe,"  she. 
said  simply.  "Now  I'm  not.  When  I  look  in  that 
glass  at  myself,  and  call  myself  what  I  am,  I  'd  give 
a  good  bit  to  be  back  on  the  Street  again." 

She  found  opportunity  for  a  wrord  with  K.  while 
Christine  went  ahead  of  him  out  of  the  barn. 

"I've  been  wanting  to  speak  to  you,  Mr.  Le 
Moyne."  She  lowered  her  voice.  "Joe  Drummond  's 
been  coming  out  here  pretty  regular.  Schwitter 
says  he's  drinking  a  little.  He  don't  like  him  loafing 
around  here :  he  sent  him  home  last  Sunday.  What 's 
come  over  the  boy?" 

"I'll  talk  to  him." 

"The  barkeeper  says  he  carries  a  revolver  around, 
and  talks  wild.  I  thought  maybe  Sidney  Page  could 
do  something  with  him." 

"  I  think  he'd  not  like  her  to  know.  I '11  do  what 
I  can." 

K.'s  face  was  thoughtful  as  he  followed  Christine 
to  the  road. 

Christine  was  very  silent  on  the  way  back  to  the 

2Q6 


city.  More  than  once  K.  found  her  eyes  fixed  on 
him,  and  it  puzzled  him.  Poor  Christine  was  only 
trying  to  fit  him  into  the  world  she  knew  —  a  world 
whose  men  were  strong  but  seldom  tender,  who  gave 
4ip  their  Sundays  to  golf,  not  to  visiting  unhappy 
outcasts  in  the  country.  How  masculine  he  was,  and 
yet  how  gentle!  It  gave  her  a  choking  feeling  in  her 
throat.  She  took  advantage  of  a  steep  bit  of  road 
to  stop  and  stand  a  moment,  her  fingers  on  his 
shabby  gray  sleeve. 

It  was  late  when  they  got  home.  Sidney  was  sit- 
ting on  the  low  step,  waiting  for  them. 

Wilson  had  come  across  at  seven,  impatient  be- 
cause he  must  see  a  case  that  evening,  and  promising 
an  early  return.  In  the  little  hall  he  had  drawn  her 
to  him  and  kissed  her,  this  time  not  on  the  lips,  but 
on  the  forehead  and  on  each  of  her  white  eyelids. 

"Little  wife-to-be!"  he  had  said,  and  was  rather 
ashamed  of  his  own  emotion.  From  across  the  Street, 
as  he  got  into  his  car,  he  had  waved  his  hand  to  her. 

Christine  went  to  her  room,  and,  with  a  long 
breath  of  content,  K.  folded  up  his  long  length  on 
the  step  below  Sidney. 

"Well,  dear  ministering  angel,"  he  said,  "how 
goes  the  world?" 

"Things  have  been  happening,  K." 

He  sat  erect  and  looked  at  her.  Perhaps  because 
<she  had  a  woman's  instinct  for  making  the  most 
of  a  piece  of  news,  perhaps  —  more  likely,  indeed  — 
because  she  divined  that  the  announcement  would 

297 


not  be  entirely  agreeable,  she  delayed  it,  played 
with  it. 

"  I  have  gone  into  the  operating-room." 

"Fine!" 

"The  costume  is  ugly.    I  look  hideous  in  it." 

"Doubtless." 

He  smiled  up  at  her.  There  was  relief  in  his  eyes, 
and  still  a  question. 

"Is  that  all  the  news?" 

"There  is  something  else,  K." 

It  was  a  moment  before  he  spoke.  He  sat  looking 
ahead,  his  face  set.  Apparently  he  did  not  wish  to 
hear  her  say  it;  for  when,  after  a  moment,  he  spoke, 
it  was  to  forestall  her,  after  all. 

"I  think  I  know  what  it  is,  Sidney." 

"You  expected  it.  did  n't  you?" 

"I  —  it's  not  an  entire  surprise." 

"Are  n't  you  going  to  wish  me  happiness?" 

"  If  my  wishing  could  bring  anything  good  to  you, 
you  would  have  everything  in  the  world." 

His  voice  was  not  entirely  steady,  but  his  eyes 
smiled  into  hers. 

"Am  I  —  are  we  going  to  lose  you  soon?" 

"  I  shall  finish  my  training.  I  made  that  a  con= 
dition." 

Then,  in  a  burst  of  confidence:  — 

"I  know  so  little,  K.,  and  he  knows  so  much!  I 
am  going  to  read  and  study,  so  that  he  can  talk  to 
me  about  his  work.  That's  what  marriage  ought 
to  be,  a  sort  of  partnership.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

298 


K.  nodded.  His  mind  refused  to  go  forward  to  the 
anthinkable  future.  Instead,  he  was  looking  back 
—  back  to  those  days  when  he  had  hoped  sometime 
to  have  a  wife  to  talk  to  about  his  work,  that  be- 
loved work  that  was  no  longer  his.  And,  finding  it 
agonizing,  as  indeed  all  thought  was  that  summer 
night,  he  dwelt  for  a  moment  on  that  evening,  a 
year  before,  when  in  the  same  June  moonlight,  he 
had  come  up  the  Street  and  had  seen  Sidney  where 
she  was  now,  with  the  tree  shadows  playing  over  her. 

Even  that  first  evening  he  had  been  jealous. 

It  had  been  Joe  then.  Now  it  was  another  and 
^Ider  man,  daring,  intelligent,  unscrupulous.  And 
this  time  he  had  lost  her  absolutely,  lost  her  without 
A  struggle  to  keep  her.  His  only  struggle  had  been 
with  himself,  to  remember  that  he  had  nothing  tc 
offer  but  failure. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Sidney  suddenly,  "that  it 
is  almost  a  year  since  that  night  you  came  up  the 
Street,  and  I  was  here  on  the  steps?" 

"That's  a  fact,  isn't  it!"  He  managed  to  get 
some  surprise  into  his  voice. 

"How  Joe  objected  to  your  coming!    Poor  Joe!" 

"Do  you  ever  see  him?" 

"  Hardly  ever  now.    I  think  he  hates  me." 

"Why?" 

"Because  —  well,  you  know,  K.  Why  do  men 
always  hate  a  woman  who  just  happens  not  to  love 
them?" 

"  I  don't  believe  they  do.  It  would  be  much  bet- 
299 


ter  for  them  if  they  could.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there 
are  poor  devils  who  go  through  life  trying  to  do 
that  very  thing,  and  failing." 

Sidney's  eyes  were  on  the  tall  house  across.  It 
was  Dr.  Ed's  evening  office  hour,  and  through  the 
open  window  she  could  see  a  line  of  people  waiting 
their  turn.  They  sat  immobile,  inert,  doggedly  pa- 
tient, until  the  opening  of  the  back  office  door  pro- 
moted them  all  one  chair  toward  the  consulting- 
room. 

"I  shall  be  just  across  the  Street,"  she  said  at 
last.  "Nearer  than  I  am  at  the  hospital." 

"You  will  be  much  farther  away.  You  will  be 
married." 

"But  we  will  still  be  friends,  K.?" 

Her  voice  was  anxious,  a  little  puzzled.  She  was 
often  puzzled  with  him. 

"Of  course." 

But,  after  another  silence,  he  astounded  her.  She 
had  fallen  into  the  way  of  thinking  of  him  as  always 
belonging  to  the  house,  even,  in  a  sense,  belonging  to 
her.  And  now  — 

"Shall  you  mind  very  much  if  I  tell  you  that  I 
am  thinking  of  going  away?" 

"K.!" 

"My  dear  child,  you  do  not  need  a  roomer  here 
any  more.  I  have  always  received  infinitely  more 
than  I  have  paid  for,  even  in  the  small  services  I 
have  been  able  to  render.  Your  Aunt  Harriet  is 
prosperous.  You  are  away,  and  some  day  you  are 

300 


going  to  be  married.     Don't  you  see  —  I  am  not 
needed?" 

"That  does  not  mean  you  are  not  wanted." 

"I  shall  not  go  far.  I'll  always  be  near  enough, 
so  that  I  can  see  you"  -  he  changed  this  hastily  — 
"so  that  we  can  still  meet  and  talk  things  over. 
Old  friends  ought  to  be  like  that,  not  too  near,  but 
to  be  turned  on  when  needed,  like  a  tap." 

"Where  will  you  go?" 

"The  Rosenfelds  are  rather  in  straits.  I  thought 
of  helping  them  to  get  a  small  house  somewhere  and 
of  taking  a  room  with  them.  It's  largely  a  matter  of 
furniture.  If  they  could  furnish  it  even  plainly,  it 
could  be  done.  I  —  have  n't  saved  anything." 

"Do  you  ever  think  of  yourself?"  she  cried. 
"Have  you  always  gone  through  life  helping  people, 
K.?  Save  anything!  I  should  think  not!  You  spend 
it  all  on  others."  She  bent  over  and  put  her  hand 
on  his  shoulder.  "It  will  not  be  home  without 
you,  K." 

To  save  him,  he  could  not  have  spoken  just  then. 
A  riot  of  rebellion  surged  up  in  him,  that  he  must 
let  this  best  thing  in  his  life  go  out  of  it.  To  go 
empty  of  heart  through  the  rest  of  his  days,  while 
his  very  arms  ached  to  hold  her!  And  she  was  so 
near  —  just  above,  with  her  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
her  wistful  face  so  close  that,  without  moving,  he 
could  have  brushed  her  hair. 

"You  have  not  wished  me  happiness,  K.  Do 
you  remember,  when  I  was  going  to  the  hospital 

301 


and  you  gave  me  the  little  watch  —  do  you  remem- 
ber what  you  said?" 

"Yes"  — huskily. 

"Will  you  say  it  again?" 

"But  that  was  good-bye." 

"  Is  n't  this,  in  a  way?  You  are  going  to  leave  us, 
and  I  —  say  it,  K." 

"Good-bye,  dear,  and  —  God  bless  you." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  announcement  of  Sidney's  engagement  was 
not  to  be  made  for  a  year.  Wilson,  chafing  under 
the  delay,  was  obliged  to  admit  to  himself  that  it 
was  best.  Many  things  could  happen  in  a  year. 
Carlotta  would  have  finished  her  training,  and  by 
that  time  would  probably  be  reconciled  to  the 
ending  of  their  relationship. 

He  intended  to  end  that.  He  had  meant  every 
word  of  what  he  had  sworn  to  Sidney.  He  was  gen- 
uinely in  love,  even  unselfishly  —  as  far  as  he  could 
be  unselfish.  The  secret  was  to  be  carefully  kept  also 
for  Sidney's  sake.  The  hospital  did  not  approve  of 
engagements  between  nurses  and  the  staff.  It  was 
disorganizing,  bad  for  discipline. 

Sidney  was  very  happy  all  that  summer.  She 
glowed  with  pride  when  her  lover  put  through  a  diffi- 
cult piece  of  work;  flushed  and  palpitated  when  she 
heard  his  praises  sung;  grew  to  know,  by  a  sort  of 
intuition,  when  he  was  in  the  house.  She  wore  his 
ring  on  a  fine  chain  around  her  neck,  and  grew 
prettier  every  day. 

Once  or  twice,  however,  when  she  was  at  home, 
away  from  the  glamour,  her  early  fears  obsessed  her. 
Would  he  always  love  her?  He  was  so  handsome  and 
so  gifted,  and  there  were  women  who  were  mad 
about  him.  That  was  the  gossip  of  the  hospital 

303 


Suppose  she  married  him  and  he  tired  of  her?  In 
her  humility  she  thought  that  perhaps  only  her 
youth,  and  such  charm  as  she  had  that  belonged  to 
youth,  held  him.  And  before  her,  always,  she  saw 
the  tragic  women  of  the  wards. 

K.  had  postponed  his  leaving  until  fall.  Sidney 
had  been  insistent,  and  Harriet  had  topped  the 
argument  in  her  businesslike  way.  "  If  you  insist  on 
being  an  idiot  and  adopting  the  Rosenfeld  family," 
she  said,  "wait  until  September.  The  season  for 
boarders  does  n't  begin  until  fall." 

So  K.  waited  for  "the  season,"  and  ate  his  heart 
out  for  Sidney  in  the  interval. 

Johnny  Rosenfeld  still  lay  in  his  ward,  inert  from 
the  waist  down.  K.  was  h;s  most  frequent  visitor. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  watching  the  boy 
closely,  at  Max  Wilson's  request. 

"Tell  me  when  I'm  to  do  it,"  said  Wilson,  "and 
when  the  time  comes,  for  God's  sake,  stand  by  me. 
Come  to  the  operation.  He's  got  so  much  confi- 
dence that  I'll  help  him  that  I  don't  dare  to 
fail." 

So  K.  came  on  visiting  days,  and,  by  special  dis- 
pensation, on  Saturday  afternoons.  He  was  teaching 
the  boy  basket-making.  Not  that  he  knew  anything 
about  it  himself;  but,  by  means  of  a  blind  teacher,  he 
kept  just  one  lesson  ahead.  The  ward  was  intensely 
interested.  It  found  something  absurd  and  rather 
touching  in  this  tall,  serious  young  man  with  the  sur* 
prisingly  deft  fingers,  tying  raffia  knots. 

304 


K. 


The  first  basket  went,  by  Johnny's  request,  to 
Sidney  Page. 

"  I  want  her  to  have  it,"  he  said.  "She  got  corns 
on  her  fingers  from  rubbing  me  when  I  came  in  first; 
and,  besides  — " 

"  Yes?  "  said  K.  He  was  tying  a  most  complicated 
knot,  and  could  not  look  up. 

"  I  know  something,"  said  Johnny.  "  I  'm  not  go- 
ing to  get  in  wrong  by  talking,  but  I  know  some- 
thing. You  give  her  the  basket." 

K.  looked  up  then,  and  surprised  Johnny's  secret 
jn  his  face. 

"Ah!"  he  said. 

"If  I'd  squealed  she'd  have  finished  me  for  good. 
They  've  got  me,  you  know.  I  'm  not  running  in  2.40 
these  days." 

"I'll  not  tell,  or  make  it  uncomfortable  for  you. 
What  do  you  know?" 

Johnny  looked  around.  The  ward  was  in  the  som- 
nolence of  mid-afternoon.  The  nearest  patient,  a 
man  in  a  wheel-chair,  was  snoring  heavily. 

"It  was  the  dark-eyed  one  that  changed  the  medi- 
cine on  me,"  he  said.  "The  one  with  the  heels  that 
were  always  tapping  around,  waking  me  up.  She 
did  it:  I  saw  her." 

After  all,  it  was  only  what  K.  had  suspected  be- 
fore. But  a  sense  of  impending  danger  to  Sidney  ob- 
sessed him.  If  Carlotta  would  do  that,  what  would 
she  do  when  she  learned  of  the  engagement?  And 
he  had  known  her  before.  He  believed  she 

305 


totally  unscrupulous.   The  odd  coincidence  of  their 
paths  crossing  again  troubled  him. 

Carlotta  Harrison  was  well  again,  and  back  on 
duty.  Luckily  for  Sidney,  her  three  months'  service 
in  the  operating-room  kept  them  apart.  For  Car- 
lotta was  now  not  merely  jealous.  She  found  herself 
neglected,  ignored.  It  ate  her  like  a  fever. 

But  she  did  not  yet  suspect  an  engagement.  It 
had  been  her  theory  that  Wilson  would  not  marry 
easily  —  that,  in  a  sense,  he  would  have  to  be  co- 
erced into  marriage.  Some  clever  woman  would 
marry  him  some  day,  and  no  one  would  be  more  as- 
tonished than  himself.  She  thought  merely  that  Sid- 
ney was  playing  a  game  like  her  own,  with  different 
weapons.  So  she  planned  her  battle,  ignorant  that 
she  had  lost  already. 

Her  method  was  simple  enough.  She  stopped 
sulking,  met  Max  with  smiles,  made  no  overtures 
toward  a  renewal  of  their  relations.  At  first  this  an- 
noyed him.  Later  it  piqued  him.  To  desert  a  wo- 
man was  justifiable,  under  certain  circumstances. 
But  to  desert  a  woman,  and  have  her  apparently  not 
even  know  it,  was  against  the  rules  of  the  game. 

During  a  surgical  dressing  in  a  private  room,  one 
day,  he  allowed  his  fingers  to  touch  hers,  as  on  that 
day  a  year  before  when  she  had  taken  Miss  Simp- 
son's place  in  his  office.  He  was  rewarded  by  the 
same  slow,  smouldering  glance  that  had  caught  his 
attention  before.  So  she  was  only  acting  indiffer- 
ence! 

306 


Then  Carlotta  made  her  second  move.  A  new  in» 
terne  had  come  into  the  house,  and  was  going 
through  the  process  of  learning  that  from  a  senior 
at  the  medical  school  to  a  half-baked  junior  interne 
is  a  long  step  back.  He  had  to  endure  the  good-hu= 
mored  contempt  of  the  older  men,  the  patronizing 
instructions  of  nurses  as  to  rules. 

Carlotta  alone  treated  him  with  deference.  His 
uneasy  rounds  in  Carlotta's  precinct  took  on  the 
state  and  form  of  staff  visitations.  She  flattered, 
cajoled,  looked  up  to  him. 

After  a  time  it  dawned  on  Wilson  that  this  junior 
cub  was  getting  more  attention  than  himself:  that, 
wherever  he  happened  to  be,  somewhere  in  the  offing 
would  be  Carlotta  and  the  Lamb,  the  latter  eyeing 
her  with  worship.  Her  indifference  had  only  piqued 
him.  The  enthroning  of  a  successor  galled  him.  Be- 
tween them,  the  Lamb  suffered  mightily  —  was  sub- 
ject to  frequent  "bawling  out,"  as  he  termed  it,  in 
the  operating-room  as  he  assisted  the  anaesthetist. 
He  took  his  troubles  to  Carlotta,  who  soothed  him 
in  the  corridor  —  in  plain  sight  of  her  quarry,  of 
course  —  by  putting  a  sympathetic  hand  on  his 
sleeve. 

Then,  one  day,  Wilson  was  goaded  to  speech. 

"For  the  love  of  Heaven,  Carlotta,"  he  said  im- 
patiently, "stop  making  love  to  that  wretched  boy. 
He  wriggles  like  a  worm  if  you  look  at  him." 

"I  like  him.  He  is  thoroughly  genuine.  I  respect 
him,  and  —  he  respects  me." 

307 


""It's  rather  a  silly  game,  you  know." 

"What  game?" 

"Do  you  think  I  don't  understand?" 

"  Perhaps  you  do.  I  —  I  don't  really  care  a  lot 
about  him.  Max.  But  I  Ve  been  down-hearted.  He 
sheers  me  up." 

Her  attraction  for  him  was  almost  gone  —  not 
quite.  He  felt  rather  sorry  for  her. 

"I'm  sorry.   Then  you  are  not  angry  with  me?" 

''Angry?  No."  She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his,  and 
for  once  she  was  not  acting.  "  I  knew  it  would  end, 
of  course.  I  have  lost  a  —  a  lover.  I  expected  that. 
But  I  wanted  to  keep  a  friend." 

It  was  the  right  note.  Why,  after  all,  should  he 
not  be  her  friend?  He  had  treated  her  cruelly,  hide- 
ously. If  she  still  desired  his  friendship,  there  was 
no  disloyalty  to  Sidney  in  giving  it.  And  Carlotta 
was  very  careful.  Not  once  again  did  she  allow  him 
to  see  what  lay  in  her  eyes.  She  told  him  of  her  wor- 
ries. Her  training  was  almost  over.  She  had  a 
chance  to  take  up  institutional  work.  She  abhorred 
the  thought  of  private  duty.  What  would  he  advise? 

The  Lamb  was  hovering  near,  hot  eyes  on  them 
both.  It  was  no  place  to  talk. 

"Come  to  the  office  and  we'll  talk  it  over." 

"I  don't  like  to  go  there;  Miss  Simpson  is  sus- 
picious." 

The  institution  she  spoke  of  was  in  another  city. 
It  occurred  to  Wilson  that  if  she  took  it  the  affair 
would  have  reached  a  graceful  and  legitimate  end. 

308 


Also,  the  thought  of  another  stolen  evening  alone 
with  her  was  not  unpleasant.  It  would  be  the  last, 
he  promised  himself.  After  all,  it  was  owing  to  her. 
He  had  treated  her  badly. 

Sidney  would  be  at  a  lecture  that  night.  The  even- 
ing loomed  temptingly  free. 

"Suppose  you  meet  me  at  the  old  corner,"  he  said 
carelessly,  eyes  on  the  Lamb,  who  was  forgetting 
that  he  was  only  a  junior  interne  and  was  glaring 
ferociously.  "We'll  run  out  into  the  country  and 
talk  things  over." 

She  demurred,  with  her  heart  beating  triumph- 
antly. 

"What 's  the  use  of  going  back  to  that?  It 's  over, 
is  n't  it?" 

Her  objection  made  him  determined.  When  at 
last  she  had  yielded,  and  he  made  his  way  down  to 
the  smoking-room,  it  was  with  the  feeling  that  he 
had  won  a  victory. 

K.  had  been  uneasy  all  that  day;  his  ledgers  irri- 
tated him.  He  had  been  sleeping  badly  since  Sid- 
ney's announcement  of  her  engagement.  At  five 
o'clock,  when  he  left  the  office,  he  found  Joe  Prum- 
mond  waiting  outside  on  the  pavement. 

"  Mother  said  you 'd  been  up  to  see  me  a  couple  of 
times.  I  thought  I  'd  come  around." 

K.  looked  at  his  watch. 

/'What  do  you  say  to  a  walk?" 

"Not  out  in  the  country.    I'm  not  as  muscular 

309 


as  you  are.    I  '11  go  about  town  for  a  half-hour  or 
so." 

Thus  forestalled,  K.  found  his  subject  hard  to  lead 
up  to.  But  here  again  Joe  met  him  more  than  half- 
way. 

"Well,  go  on,"  he  said,  when  they  found  them- 
selves in  the  park;  "I  don't  suppose  you  were  pay- 
ing a  call." 

"No." 

"I  guess  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say." 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  preach,  if  you  're  expecting  that. 
Ordinarily,  if  a  man  insists  on  making  a  fool  of  him- 
self, I  let  him  alone." 

"Why  make  an  exception  of  me?" 

"One  reason  is  that  I  happen  to  like  you.  The 
other  reason  is  that,  whether  you  admit  it  or  not, 
you  are  acting  like  a  young  idiot,  and  are  putting  the 
responsibility  on  the  shoulders  of  some  one  else." 

"She  is  responsible,  is  n't  she?" 

"Not  in  the  least.     How  old  are  you,  Joe?" 

"  Twenty- three,  almost." 

"  Exactly.  You  are  a  man,  and  you  are  acting  like 
a  bad  boy.  It's  a  disappointment  to  me.  It's  more 
than  that  to  Sidney." 

"Much  she  cares!  She's  going  to  marry  Wilson, 
is  n't  she?" 

"There  is  no  announcement  of  any  engagement." 

"She  is,  and  you  know  it.   Well,  she'll  be  happy 
-  not!   If  I  'd  go  to  her  to-night  and  tell  her  what  I 
know,  she'd  never  see  him  again." 

310 


The  idea,  thus  born  in  his  overwrought  brain,  ob- 
sessed him.  He  returned  to  it  again  and  again.  Le 
Moyne  was  uneasy.  He  was  not  certain  that  the 
boy's  statement  had  any  basis  in  fact.  His  single 
determination  was  to  save  Sidney  from  any  pain. 

When  Joe  suddenly  announced  his  inclination  to 
go  out  into  the  country  after  all,  he  suspected  a  ruse 
to  get  rid  of  him,  and  insisted  on  going  along.  Joe 
consented  grudgingly. 

"Car's  at  Bailey's  garage,"  he  said  sullenly.  "3 
don't  know  when  I'll  get  back." 

"That  won't  matter."    K.'s  tone  was  cheerful 
'I'm  not  sleeping,  anyhow." 

That  passed  unnoticed  until  they  were  on  tL> 
highroad,  with  the  car  running  smoothly  betw^n 
yellowing  fields  of  wheat.  Then:  — 

"So  you've  got  it  too!"  he  said.  "We're  a  fine 
pair  of  fools.  We  'd  both  be  better  off  if  I  sen}  the 
car  over  a  bank." 

He  gave  the  wheel  a  reckless  twist,  and  Le  Moyne 
called  him  to  time  sternly. 

They  had  supper  at  the  White  Springs  Hotel  - 
not  on  the  terrace,  but  in  the  little  room  where  Car- 
lotta  and  Wilson  had  taken  their  first  meal  together. 
K.  ordered  beer  for  them  both,  and  Joe  submitted 
with  bad  grace. 

But  the  meal  cheered  and  steadied  him.  K.  found 
him  more  amenable  to  reason,  and,  g?ming  his  con- 
fidence, learned  of  his  desire  to  leave  '/.he  city. 

"I'm  stuck  here,"  he  said.    "Vi>  the  only  one, 


and  mother  yells  blue  murder  when  I  talk  about  it. 
I  want  to  go  to  Cuba.  My  uncle  owns  a  farm  down 
tr.ere." 

•'Perhaps  I  can  talk  your  mother  over.  I  Ve  been 
there." 

Joe  was  all  interest.  His  dilated  pupils  became 
more  normal,  his  restless  hands  grew  quiet.  K.'s 
even  voice,  the  picture  he  drew  of  life  en  the  island, 
the  stillness  of  the  little  hotel  in  its  mid-week  dull- 
ness, seeme'd  to  quiet  the  boy's  tortured  nerves.  He 
was  nearer  to  peace  than  he  had  been  for  many 
days.  But  he  smoked  incessantly,  lighting  one  cigar- 
ette from  another. 

At  ten  o'clock  he  left  K.  and  went  for  the  car.  He 
paused  for  a  moment,  rather  sheepishly,  by  K.'s 
chair. 

"I'm  feeling  a  lot  better,"  he  said.  "I  have  n't 
got  the  band  around  my  head.  You  talk  to  mother." 

That  was  the  last  K.  saw  of  Joe  Drummond  until 
the  next  day. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

CARLOTTA  dressed  herself  with  unusual  care  —  not 
in  black  this  time,  but  in  white.  She  coiled  her  yel- 
low hair  in  a  soft  knot  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and 
she  resorted  to  the  faintest  shading  of  rouge.  She 
intended  to  be  gay,  cheerful.  The  ride  was  to  be  a 
bright  spot  in  Wilson's  memory.  He  expected  re- 
criminations; she  meant  to  make  him  happy.  That 
was  the  secret  of  the  charm  some  women  had  for 
men.  They  went  to  such  women  to  forget  their 
troubles.  She  set  the  hour  of  their  meeting  at  nine, 
when  the  late  dusk  of  summer  had  fallen;  and  she 
met  him  then,  smiling,  a  faintly  perfumed  white 
figure,  slim  and  young,  with  a  thrill  in  her  voice  that 
was  only  half  assumed. 

*  It 's  very  late,"  he  complained.  "Surely  you  are 
not  going  to  be  back  at  ten." 

"I  have  special  permission  to  be  out  late." 

"Good!"  And  then,  recollecting  their  new  situ- 
ation: "We  have  a  lot  to  talk  over.  It  will  take 
time." 

At  the  White  Springs  Hotel  they  stopped  to  fill 
the  gasolene  tank  of  the  car.  Joe  Drummond  saw 
Wilson  there,  in  the  sheet-iron  garage  alongside  of 
the  road.  The  Wilson  car  was  in  the  shadow.  It  did 
not  occur  to  Joe  that  the  white  figure  in  the  car  was 
not  Sidney.  He  went  rather  white,  and  stepped  out 

313 


K, 


of  the  zone  of  light.  The  influence  of  Le  Moyne  was 
still  on  him,  however,  and  he  went  on  quietly  with 
what  he  was  doing.  But  his  hands  shook  as  he  filled 
the  radiator. 

When  Wilson's  car  had  gone  on,  he  went  automat- 
ically about  his  preparations  for  the  return  trip  — 
lifted  a  seat  cushion  to  investigate  his  own  store  of 
gasolene,  replacing  carefully  the  revolver  he  always 
carried  under  the  seat  and  packed  in  waste  to  pre- 
vent its  .accidental  discharge,  lighted  his  lamps,  ex- 
amined a  loose  brake-band. 

His  coolness  gratified  him.  He  had  been  an  ass: 
Le  Moyne  was  right.  He  'd  get  away  —  to  Cuba  if 
he  could  —  and  start  over  again.  He  would  forget 
the  Street  and  let  it  forget  him. 

The  men  in  the  garage  were  talking. 

"To  Schwitter's,  of  course,"  one  of  them  grum- 
bled. "We  might  as  well  go  out  of  business," 

"There's  no  money  in  running  a  straight  place. 
Schwitter  and  half  a  dozen  others  are  getting  rich." 

"That  was  Wilson,  the  surgeon  in  town.  He  cut 
off  my  brother-in-law's  leg  —  charged  him  as  much 
as  if  he  had  grown  a  new  one  for  him.  He  used  to 
:ome  here.  Now  he  goes  on  to  Schwitter's,  like  the 
rest.  Pretty  girl  he  had  with  him.  You  can  bet  on 
Wilson." 

So  Max  Wilson  was  taking  Sidney  to  Schwitter's, 
making  her  the  butt  of  garage  talk!  The  smiles  of 
the  men  were  evil.  Joe's  hands  grew  cold,  his  head 
hot.  A  red  mist  spread  between  him  and  the  line  of 

314 


electric  lights.    He  knew  Sch  witter' s,  and  he  knew 
Wilson. 

He  flung  himself  into  his  car  and  threw  the  throt- 
tle open.  The  car  jerked,  stalled. 

"You  can't  start  like  that,  son,"  one  of  the  men 
remonstrated.  "You  let  'er  in  too  fast." 

"You  go  to  hell!"  Joe  snarled,  and  made  a  sec- 
ond ineffectual  effort. 

Thus  adjured,  the  men  offered  neither  further 
advice  nor  assistance.  The  minutes  went  by  in  use- 
less cranking  —  fifteen.  The  red  mist  grew  heavier.. 
Every  lamp  was  a  danger  signal.  But  when  K., 
growing  uneasy,  came  out  into  the  yard,  the  engine 
had  started  at  last.  He  was  in  time  to  see  Joe  run* 
his  car  into  the  road  and  turn  it  viciously  toward 
Schwitter's. 

Carlotta's  nearness  was  having  its  calculated  ef- 
fect on  Max  Wilson.  His  spirits  rose  as  the  engine,, 
marking  perfect  time,  carried  them  along  the  quiet 
roads. 

Partly  it  was  reaction  —  relief  that  she  should  be- 
so  reasonable,  so  complaisant  —  and  a  sort  of  holi- 
day spirit  after  the  day's  hard  work.  Oddly  enough, 
and  not  so  irrational  as  may  appear,  Sidney  formed 
a  part  of  the  evening's  happiness  —  that  she  loved 
him;  that,  back  in  the  lecture-room,  eyes  and  even* 
mind  on  the  lecturer,  her  heart  was  with  him. 

So,  with  Sidney  the  basis  of  his  happiness,  he 
made  the  most  of  his  evening's  freedom.  He  sang  a* 
little  in  his  clear  tenor  —  even,  once  when  they  had' 

315 


slowed  down  at  a  crossing,  bent  over  audaciously 
and  kissed  Carlotta's  hand  in  the  full  glare  of  a  pass- 
ing train. 

"How  reckless  of  you!" 

"  I  like  to  be  reckless,"  he  replied. 

His  boyishness  annoyed  Carlotta.  She  did  not 
want  the  situation  to  get  out  of  hand.  Moreover, 
what  was  so  real  for  her  was  only  too  plainly  a  lark 
for  him.  She  began  to  doubt  her  power. 

The  hopelessness  of  her  situation  was  dawning  on 
her.  Even  when  the  touch  of  her  beside  him  and  the 
solitude  of  the  country  roads  got  in  his  blood,  and 
he  bent  toward  her,  she  found  no  encouragement  in 
his  words:  — 

"I  am  mad  about  you  to-night." 

She  took  her  courage  in  her  hands :  — 

"Then  why  give  me  up  for  some  one  else?" 

"That's  — different." 

"Why  is  it  different?  I  am  a  woman.  I  —  I  love 
you,  Max.  No  one  else  will  ever  care  as  I  do." 

"You  are  in  love  with  the  Lamb!" 

"That  was  a  trick.  I  'm  sorry,  Max.  I  don't  care 
for  any  one  else  in  the  world.  If  you  let  me  go  I  '11 
want  to  die." 

Then,  as  he  was  silent:  — 

"if  you'll  marry  me,  I'll  be  true  to  you  all  my 
life.  I  swear  it.  There  will  be  nobody  else,  ever." 

The  sense,  if  not  the  words,  of  what  he  had  sworn 
to  Sidney  that  Sunday  afternoon  under  the  trees,  on 
this  very  road!  Swift  shame  overtook  him,  that  he 


should  be  here,  that  he  had  allowed  Carlotta  to  res 
main  in  ignorance  of  how  things  really  stood  be- 
tween them. 

"I'm  sorry,  Carlotta.  It's  impossible.  I'm  en- 
gaged  to  marry  some  one  else." 

"Sidney  Page?"    -  almost  a  whisper. 

"Yes." 

He  was  ashamed  at  the  way  she  took  the  news. 
If  she  had  stormec!  or  wept,  he  would  have  known 
what  to  do.  But  she  sat  still,  not  speaking. 

"You  must  have  expected  it,  sooner  or  later." 

Still  she  made  no  reply.  He  thought  she  might 
faint,  and  looked  at  her  anxiously.  Her  profile,  in- 
distinct beside  him,  looked  white  and  drawn.  But 
Carlotta  was  not  fainting.  She  was  making  a  desper- 
ate plan.  If  their  escapade  became  known,  it  would 
end  things  between  Sidney  and  him.  She  was  sure 
of  that.  She  needed  time  to  think  it  out.  It  must 
become  known  without  any  apparent  move  on  her 
part.  If,  for  instance,  she  became  ill,  and  was  away 
from  the  hospital  all  night,  that  might  answer.  The 
thing  would  be  investigated,  and  who  knew  — 

The  car  turned  in  at  Schwitter's  road  and  drew 
up  before  the  house.  The  narrow  porch  was  filled 
with  small  tables,  above  which  hung  rows  of  electric 
lights  enclosed  in  Japanese  paper  lanterns.  Mid- 
week,  which  had  found  the  White  Springs  Hotel  al- 
most deserted,  saw  Schwitter's  crowded  tables  set 
out  under  the  trees.  Seeing  the  crowd,  Wilson  drove 
directly  to  the  yard  and  parked  his  machine. 

317 


K 


"No  need  of  running  any  risk,"  he  explained  to 
the  still  figure  beside  him.  "We  can  walk  back  and 
take  a  table  under  the  trees,  away  from  those  in- 
fernal lanterns." 

She  reeled  a  little  as  he  helped  her  out. 

"Not  sick,  are  you?" 

"I'm  dizzy.     I'm  all  right." 

She  looked  white.  He  felt  a  stab  of  pity  for  her« 
She  leaned  rather  heavily  on  him  as  they  walked 
toward  the  house.  The  faint  perfume  that  had  almost 
intoxicated  him,  earlier,  vaguely  irritated  him  now. 

At  the  rear  of  the  house  she  shook  off  his  arm  and 
preceded  him  around  the  building.  She  chose  the 
•end  of  the  porch  as  the  place  in  which  to  drop,  and 
went  down  like  a  stone,  falling  back. 

There  was  a  moderate  excitement.  The  visitors 
at  Sch witter 's  were  too  much  engrossed  with  them- 
selves to  be  much  interested.  She  opened  her  eyes 
almost  as  soon  as  she  fell  —  to  forestall  any  tests ; 
she  was  shrewd  enough  to  know  that  Wilson  would 
detect  her  malingering  very  quickly  —  and  begged 
to  be  taken  into  the  house. 

"  I  feel  very  ill,"  she  said,  and  her  white  face  bore 
her  out. 

Schwitter  and  Bill  carried  her  in  and  up  the  stairs 
to  one  of  the  newly  furnished  rooms.  The  little  man 
was  twittering  with  anxiety.  He  had  a  horror  of 
knockout  drops  and  the  police.  They  laid  her  on  the 
bed,  her  hat  beside  her;  and  Wilson,  stripping  down 
the  long  sleeve  of  her  glove,  felt  her  pulse. 


"There's  a  doctor  in  the  next  town,"  said  Schwit- 
ter.  "I  was  going  to  send  for  him,  anyhow  —  my 
wife's  not  very  well." 

"I'm  a  doctor."      ' 

"  Is  it  anything  serious?" 

"  Nothing  serious." 

He  closed  the  door  behind  the  relieved  figure  of 
the  landlord,  and,  going  back  to  Carlotta,  stood 
looking  down  at  her. 

"What  did  you  mean  by  doing  that?' 

"Doing  what?" 

"You  were  no  more  faint  than  I  am.*' 

She  closed  her  eyes. 

"  I  don't  remember.  Everything  went  black.  The 
lanterns  — ' ' 

He  crossed  the  room  deliberately  and  went  out, 
closing  the  door  behind  him.  He  saw  at  once  where 
he  stood  —  in  what  danger.  If  she  insisted  that  she 
was  ill  and  unable  to  go  back,  there  would  be  a  fuss. 
The  story  would  come  out.  Everything  would  be 
gone.  Schwitter's,  of  all  places! 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  Schwitter  pulled  himself 
together.  After  all,  the  girl  was  only  ill.  There  was 
nothing  for  the  police.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  The 
doctor  ought  to  be  here  by  this  time.  It  was  sooner 
than  they  had  expected.  Even  the  nurse  had  not 
come.  Tillie  was  alone,  out  in  the  harness-room. 
He  looked  through  the  crowded  rooms,  at  the  over- 
flowing porch  with  its  travesty  of  pleasure,  and  he 
hated  the  whole  thing  with  a  desperate  hatred. 

319 


Another  car.  Would  they  never  stop  coming! 
But  perhaps  it  was  the  doctor. 

A  young  man  edged  his  way  into  the  hall  and 
confronted  him. 

"Two  people  just  arrived  here.  A  man  and  a 
woman  —  in  white.  Where  are  they?" 

It  was  trouble  then,  after  all ! 

"Upstairs  —  first  bedroom  to  the  right."  His 
teeth  chattered.  Surely,  as  a  man  sowed  he  reaped. 

Joe  went  up  the  staircase.  At  the  top,  on  the 
landing,  he  confronted  Wilson.  He  fired  at  him 
without  a  word  —  saw  him  fling  up  his  arms  and 
fall  back,  striking  first  the  wall,  then  the  floor. 

The  buzz  of  conversation  on  the  porch  suddenly 
ceased.  Joe  put  his  revolver  in  his  pocket  and  went 
quietly  down  the  stairs.  The  crowd  parted  to  let 
him  through. 

Carlotta,  crouched  in  her  room,  listening,  not 
daring  to  open  the  door,  heard  the  sound  of  a  car 
as  it  swung  out  into  the  road. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ON  the  evening  of  the  shooting  at  Schwitter's,  there 
had  been  a  late  operation  at  the  hospital.  Sidney, 
having  duly  transcribed  her  lecture  notes  and  said 
her  prayers,  was  already  asleep  when  she  received 
the  insistent  summons  to  the  operating-room.  She 
dressed  again  with  flying  fingers.  These  night  battles 
with  death  roused  all  her  fighting  blood.  There  were 
times  when  she  felt  as  if,  by  sheer  will,  she  could 
force  strength,  life  itself,  into  failing  bodies.  Her 
sensitive  nostrils  dilated,  her  brain  worked  like  a 
machine. 

That  night  she  received  well-deserved  praise. 
When  the  Lamb,  telephoning  hysterically,  had  failed 
to  locate  the  younger  Wilson,  another  staff  sur- 
geon was  called.  His  keen  eyes  watched  Sidney  — 
felt  her  capacity,  her  fiber,  so  to  speak;  and,  when 
everything  was  over,  he  told  her  what  was  in  his 
mind. 

"Don't  wear  yourself  out,  girl,"  he  said  gravely. 
''We  need  people  like  you.  It  was  good  work 
to-night  —  fine  work.  I  wish  we  had  more  like 
you." 

By  midnight  the  work  was  done,  and  the  nurse 
in  charge  sent  Sidney  to  bed. 

It  was  the  Lamb  who  received  the  message  about 
Wilson;  and  because  he  was  not  very  keen  at  the 

321 


best,  and  because  the  news  was  so  startling,  he  re- 
fused to  credit  his  ears. 

"Who  is  this  at  the  'phone?" 

"That  doesn't  matter.  Le  Moyne's  my  name 
Get  the  message  to  Dr.  Ed  Wilson  at  once.  We  are 
starting  to  the  city." 

"Tell  me  again.    I  must  n't  make  a  mess  of  this." 

"Dr.  Wilson,  the  surgeon,  has  been  shot,"  came 
slowly  and  distinctly.  "Get  the  staff  there  and  have 
a  room  ready.  Get  the  operating-rocm  ready,  too." 

The  Lamb  wakened  then,  and  roused  the  house. 
He  was  incoherent,  rather,  so  that  Dr.  Ed  got  the 
impression  that  it  was  Le  Moyne  who  had  been  shot, 
and  only  learned  the  truth  when  he  got  to  the  hos- 
pital. 

"Where  is  he?"  he  demanded.  He  liked  K.,  and 
his  heart  was  sore  within  him. 

"Not  in  yet,  sir.  A  Mr.  Le  Moyne  is  bringing 
him.  Staff's  in  the  executive  committee  room,  sir." 

"But  —  who  has  been  shot?  I  thought  you 
said—" 

The  Lamb  turned  pale  at  that,  and  braced  him- 
self. 

"I'm  sorry  —  I  thought  you  understood.  I  be< 
Jieve  it's  not  —  not  serious.  It's  Dr.  Max,  sir." 

Dr.  Ed,  who  was  heavy  and  not  very  young,  sat 
down  on  an  office  chair.  Out  of  sheer  habit  he  had 
brought  the  bag.  He  put  it  down  on  the  floor  bcsid^ 
him,  and  moistened  his  lips. 

"Is  he  living?" 

222 


"Oh,  yes,  sir.  I  gathered  that  Mr.  Le  Moyne  did 
not  think  it  serious." 

He  lied,  and  Dr.  Ed  knew  he  lied. 

The  Lamb  stood  by  the  door,  and  Dr.  Ed  sat  and 
waited.  The  office  clock  said  half  after  three.  Out- 
side the  windows,  the  night  world  went  by  —  taxi- 
cabs  full  of  roisterers,  women  who  walked  stealthily 
close  to  the  buildings,  a  truck  carrying  steel,  so 
heavy  that  it  shook  the  hospital  as  it  rumbled  by. 

Dr.  Ed  sat  and  waited.  The  bag  with  the  dog- 
collar  in  it  was  on  the  floor.  He  thought  of  many 
things,  but  mostly  of  the  promise  he  had  made  his 
mother.  And,  having  forgotten  the  injured  man's 
shortcomings,  he  was  remembering  his  good  quali- 
ties —  his  cheerfulness,  his  courage,  his  achieve- 
ments. He  remembered  the  day  Max  had  done  the 
Edwardes  operation,  and  how  proud  he  had  been 
of  him.  He  figured  out  how  old  he  was  —  not 
thirty-one  yet,  and  already,  perhaps —  There  he 
stopped  thinking.  Cold  beads  of  sweat  stood  out  on 
his  forehead. 

"I  think  I  hear  them  now,  sir,"  said  the  Lamb, 
and  stood  back  respectfully  to  let  him  pass  out  of 
the  door. 

Carlotta  stayed  in  the  room  during  the  consulta- 
tion. No  one  seemed  to  wonder  why  she  was  there, 
or  to  pay  any  attention  to  her.  The  staff  was 
stricken.  They  moved  back  to  make  room  for  Dr. 
Ed  beside  the  bed,  and  then  closed  in  again. 

Carlotta  waited,  her  hand  over  her  mouth  to  keep 
323 


herself  from  screaming.  Surely  they  would  operate; 
they  would  n't  let  him  die  like  that! 

When  she  saw  the  phalanx  break  up,  and  realized 
that  they  would  not  operate,  she  went  mad.  She 
stood  against  the  door,  and  accused  them  of  coward= 
ice  —  taunted  them. 

"Do  you  think  he  would  let  any  of  you  die  like 
that?"  she  cried.  "Die  like  a  hurt  dog,  and  none 
of  you  to  lift  a  hand?" 

It  was  Pfeiffer  who  drew  her  out  of  the  room  and 
tried  to  talk  reason  and  sanity  to  her. 

"It's  hopeless,"  he  said.  " If  there  was  a  chance, 
we'd  operate,  and  you  know  it." 

The  staff  went  hopelessly  down  the  stairs  to  the 
smoking-room,  and  smoked.  It  was  all  they  could 
do.  The  night  assistant  sent  coffee  down  to  them, 
and  they  drank  it.  Dr.  Ed  stayed  in  his  brother's 
room,  and  said  to  his  mother,  under  his  breath, 
that  he'd  tried  to  do  his  best  by  Max,  and  that  from 
now  on  it  would  be  up  to  her. 

K.  had  brought  the  injured  man  in.  The  country 
doctor  had  come,  too,  finding  Tillie's  trial  not  im- 
minent. On  the  way  in  he  had  taken  it  for  granted 
that  K.  was  a  medical  man  like  himself,  and  had 
placed  his  hypodermic  case  at  his  disposal. 

When  he  missed  him,  —  in  the  smoking-room, 
that  was,  —  he  asked  for  him. 

"I  don't  see  the  chap  who  came  in  with  us/'  he 
said.  "Clever  fellow.  Like  to  know  his  name." 

The  staff  did  not  know. 

324 


K.  sat  alone  on  a  bench  in  the  hall.  He  wondered 
who  would  tell  Sidney ;  he  hoped  they  would  be  very 
gentle  with  her.  He  sat  in  the  shadow,  waiting.  He 
did  not  want  to  go  home  and  leave  her  to  what  she 
might  have  to  face.  There  was  a  chance  she  would 
ask  for  him.  He  wanted  to  be  near,  in  that  case. 

He  sat  in  the  shadow,  on  the  bench.  The  night 
watchman  went  by  twice  and  stared  at  him.  At 
last  he  asked  K.  to  mind  the  door  until  he  got  some 
coffee. 

" One  of  the  staff's  been  hurt,"  he  explained.  "  If 
I  don't  get  some  coffee  now,  I  won't  get  any." 

K.  promised  to  watch  the  door. 

A  desperate  thing  had  occurred  to  Carlotta.  Some- 
how, she  had  not  thought  of  it  before.  Now  she  won- 
dered how  she  could  have  failed  to  think  of  it.  If 
only  she  could  find  him  and  he  would  do  it!  She 
would  go  down  on  her  knees  —  would  tell  him  every- 
thing, if  only  he  would  consent. 

When  she  found  him  on  his  bench,  however,  she 
passed  him  by.  She  had  a  terrible  fear  that  he 
might  go  away  if  she  put  the  thing  to  him  first.  He 
clung  hard  to  his  new  identity. 

So  first  she  went  to  the  staff  and  confronted  them. 
They  were  men  of  courage,  only  declining  to  under- 
take what  they  considered  hopeless  work.  The  one 
man  among  them  who  might  have  done  the  thing 
with  any  chance  of  success  lay  stricken.  Not  one 
among  them  but  would  have  given  of  his  best  —  only 
his  best  was  not  good  enough. 

325 


"  It  would  be  the  Edwardes  operation,  would  n't 
it?"  demanded  Carlotta. 

The  staff  was  bewildered.  There  were  no  rules  to 
cover  such  conduct  on  the  part  of  a  nurse.  One  of 
them  —  Pfeiffer  again,  by  chance  —  replied  rather 
heavily:  — 

"  If  any,  it  would  be  the  Edwardes  operation." 

"Would  Dr.  Edwardes  himself  be  able  to  do  any- 
thing?" 

This  was  going  a  little  far. 

"Possibly.  One  chance  in  a  thousand,  perhaps. 
But  Edwardes  is  dead.  How  did  this  thing  happen, 
Miss  Harrison?" 

She  ignored  his  question.  Her  face  was  ghastly, 
save  for  the  trace  of  rouge;  her  eyes  were  red- 
rimmed. 

'"Dr.  Edwardes  is  sitting  on  a  bench  in  the  hall 
outside!"  she  announced. 

Her  voice  rang  out.  K.  heard  her  and  raised  his 
head.  His  attitude  was  weary,  resigned.  The  thing 
had  come,  then!  He  was  to  take  up  the  old  burden. 
The  girl  had  told. 

Dr.  Ed  had  sent  for  Sidney.  Max  was  still  un 
conscious.  Ed  remembered  about  her  when,  tracing 
his  brother's  career  from  his  babyhood  to  man's 
estate  and  to  what  seemed  now  to  be  its  ending,  he 
had  remembered  that  Max  was  very  fond  of  Sidney, 
He  had  hoped  that  Sidney  would  take  him  and  da 
for  him  what  he,  Ed,  had  failed  to  do. 

326 


So  Sidney  was  summoned. 

She  thought  it  was  another  operation,  and  het 
spirit  was  just  a  little  weary.    But  her  courage  was 
indomitable.   She  forced  her  shoes  on  her  tired  feet, 
and  bathed  her  face  in  cold  water  to  rouse  herself.  * 

The  night  watchman  was  in  the  hall.  He  was  fond1 
of  Sidney;  she  always  smiled  at  him;  and,  on  his- 
morning  rounds  at  six  o'clock  to  waken  the  nurses,, 
her  voice  was  always  amiable.  So  she  found  him  ir* 
the  hall,  holding  a  cup  of  tepid  coffee.  He  was  old 
and  bleary,  unmistakably  dirty  too  —  but  he  had 
divined  Sidney's  romance. 

"Coffee!   Forme?"   She  was  astonished. 

"Drink  it.    You  have  n't  had  much  sleep." 

She  took  it  obediently,  but  over  the  cup  her  eyes 
searched  his. 

"There  is  something  wrong,  daddy." 

That  was  his  name,  among  the  nurses.  He  had 
had  another  name,  but  it  was  lost  in  the  mists  of 
years. 

"Get  it  down." 

So  she  finished  it,  not  without  anxiety  that  she 
might  be  needed.  But  daddy's  attentions  were  for 
few;  and  not  to  be  lightly  received. 

"Can  you  stand  a  piece  of  bad  news?" 

Strangely,  her  first  thought  was  of  K. 

"There  has  been  an  accident.    Dr.  Wilson  — " 

"Which  one?" 

"Dr.  Max  —  has  been  hurt.  It  ain't  much,  but 
*  guess  you'd  like  to  know  it." 

327 


"Where  is  he?" 

"Downstairs,  in  Seventeen." 

So  she  went  down  alone  to  the  room  where  Dr 
Ed  sat  in  a  chair,  with  his  untidy  bag  beside  him  OR 
the  floor,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  straight  figure  on  the 
foed.  When  he  saw  Sidney,  he  got  up  and  put  his 
^.rms  around  her.  His  eyes  told  her  the  truth  before 
he  told  her  anything.  She  hardly  listened  to  what 
he  said.  The  fact  was  all  that  concerned  her  —  that 
her  lover  was  dying  there,  so  near  that  she  could 
touch  him  with  her  hand,  so  far  away  that  no  voice, 
no  caress  of  hers,  could  reach  him. 

The  why  would  come  later.  Now  she  could  only 
stand,  with  Dr.  Ed's  arms  about  her,  and  wait. 

"If  they  would  only  do  something!"  Sidney's 
voice  sounded  strange  to  her  ears. 

"There  is  nothing  to  do." 

But  that,  it  seemed,  was  wrong.  For  suddenly 
Sidney's  small  world,  which  had  always  sedately 
revolved  in  one  direction,  began  to  move  the  other 
way. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  staff  came  in.  But  where 
before  they  had  moved  heavily,  with  drooped  heads, 
now  they  came  quickly,  as  men  with  a  purpose. 
There  was  a  tall  man  in  a  white  coat  with  them.  He 
ordered  them  about  like  children,  and  they  hastened 
to  do  his  will.  At  first  Sidney  only  knew  that  now, 
at  last,  they  were  going  to  do  something  —  the  tall 
man  was  going  to  do  something.  He  stood  with  his 
back  to  Sidney,  and  gave  orders. 

7,28 


The  heaviness  of  inactivity  lifted.  The  room 
buzzed.  The  nurses  stood  by,  while  the  staff  did 
nurses'  work.  The  senior  surgical  interne,  essaying 
assistance,  was  shoved  aside  by  the  senior  surgical 
consultant,  and  stood  by,  aggrieved. 

It  was  the  Lamb,  after  all,  who  brought  the  news 
to  Sidney.  The  new  activity  had  caught  Dr.  Ed,  and 
she  was  alone  now,  her  face  buried  against  the  back 
of  a  chair. 

"There'll  be  something  doing  now,  Miss  Page," 
he  offered. 

"What  are  they  going  to  do?" 

"Going  after  the  bullet.  Do  you  know  who's  go- 
ing to  do  it?" 

His  voice  echoed  the  subdued  excitement  of  the 
room  —  excitement  and  new  hope. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Edwardes,  the  surgeon?  — 
the  Edwardes  operation,  you  know.  Well,  he's 
here.  It  sounds  like  a  miracle.  They  found  him  sit- 
ting on  a  bench  in  the  hall  downstairs." 

Sidney  raised  her  head,  but  she  could  not  see  the 
miraculously  found  Edwardes.  She  could  see  the 
familiar  faces  of  the  staff,  and  that  other  face  on 
the  pillow,  and  —  she  gave  a  little  cry.  There  was 
K. !  How  like  him  to  be  there,  to  be  wherever  any 
one  was  in  trouble!  Tears  came  to  her  eyes  —  the 
first  tears  she  had  shed. 

As  if  her  eyes  had  called  him,  he  looked  up  and 
saw  her.  He  came  toward  her  at  once.  The  staff 
stood  back  to  let  him  pass,  and  gazed  after  him. 

329 


The  wonder  of  what  had  happened  was  growing  on 
them. 

K.  stood  beside  Sidney,  and  looked  down  at  ner. 
Just  at  first  it  seemed  as  if  he  found  nothing  to  say. 
Then: — 

"There 's  just  a  chance,  Sidney  dear.  Don't  count 
too  much  on  it." 

"I  have  got  to  count  on  it.  If  I  don't,  1  shatt 
die." 

If  a  shadow  passed  over  his  face,  no  one  saw 
it. 

"  I  '11  not  ask  you  to  go  back  to  your  room.  If  you; 
will  wait  somewhere  near,  I'll  see  that  you  have 
immediate  word." 

"  I  am  going  to  the  operating-room." 

"Not  to  the  operating-room.    Somewhere  near." 

His  steady  voice  controlled  her  hysteria.  But 
she  resented  it.  She  was  not  herself,  of  course,  what 
with  strain  and  weariness. 

"I  shall  ask  Dr.  Edwardes." 

He  was  puzzled  for  a  moment.  Then  he  under- 
stood. After  all,  it  was  as  well.  Whether  she  knew 
him  as  Le  Moyne  or  as  Edwardes  mattered  very 
little,  after  all.  The  thing  that  really  mattered  was 
that  he  must  try  to  save  Wilson  for  her.  If  he  failed 
—  It  ran  through  his  mind  that  if  he  failed  she 
might  hate  him  the  rest  of  her  life  —  not  for  him- 
self, but  for  his  failure:  that,  whichever  way  thing? 
went,  he  must  lose. 

"Dr.  Edwardes  says  you  are  to  stay  away  from 
330 


the  operation,  but  to  remain  near.  He  —  he  prom- 
ises to  call  you  if  —  things  go  wrong." 

She  had  to  be  content  with  that. 

Nothing  about  that  night  was  real  to  Sidney.  She 
sat  in  the  ansesthetizing-room,  and  after  a  time  she 
knew  that  she  was  not  alone.  There  was  somebody 
else.  She  realized  dully  that  Carlotta  was  there,  too, 
pacing  up  and  down  the  little  room.  She  was 
never  sure,  for  instance,  whether  she  imagined  it, 
or  whether  Carlotta  really  stopped  before  her  and 
surveyed  her  with  burning  eyes. 

"So  you  thought  he  was  going  to  marry  you!" 
said  Carlotta  —  or  the  dream.  "Well,  you  see  he 
is  n't." 

Sidney  tried  to  answer,  and  failed  —  or  that  was 
the  way  the  dream  went. 

"If  you  had  enough  character,  I'd  think  you 
did  it.  How  do  I  know  you  did  n't  follow  us,  and 
shoot  him  as  he  left  the  room?" 

It  must  have  been  reality,  after  all;  for  Sidney's 
numbed  mind  grasped  the  essential  fact  here,  and 
held  on  to  it.  He  had  been  out  with  Carlotta.  He  had 
promised  —  sworn  that  this  should  not  happen.  It 
had  happened.  It  surprised  her.  It  seemed  as  if 
nothing  more  could  hurt  her. 

In  the  movement  to  and  from  the  operating- 
room,  the  door  stood  open  for  a  moment.  A  tall 
figure  —  how  much  it  looked  like  K. !  —  straight- 
ened and  held  out  something  in  its  hand. 

"The  bullet!"  said  Carlotta  in  a  whisper. 


Then  more  waiting,  a  stir  of  movement  in  the 
room  beyond  the  closed  door.  Carlotta  was  stand- 
ing, her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  against  the  door. 
Sidney  suddenly  felt  sorry  for  her.  She  cared  a  great 
deal.  It  must  be  tragic  to  care  like  that!  She  herself 
was  not  caring  much ;  she  was  too  numb. 

Beyond,  across  the  courtyard,  was  the  stable. 
Before  the  day  of  the  motor  ambulances,  horses  had 
waited  there  for  their  summons,  eager  as  fire  horses, 
heads  lifted  to  the  gong.  When  Sidney  saw  the  out- 
line of  the  stable  roof,  she  knew  that  it  was  dawn. 
The  city  still  slept,  but  the  torturing  night  was, 
over.  And  in  the  gray  dawn  the  staff,  looking  gray 
too,  and  elderly  and  weary,  came  out  through  the 
closed  door  and  took  their  hushed  way  toward  the 
elevator.  They  were  talking  among  themselves. 
Sidney,  straining  her  ears,  gathered  that  they  had 
seen  a  miracle,  and  that  the  wonder  was  still  on 
them. 

Carlotta  followed  them  out. 

Almost  on  their  heels  came  K.  He  was  in  the  white 
coat,  and  more  and  more  he.  looked  like  the  man 
who  had  raised  up  from  his  work  and  held  out  some- 
thing in  his  hand.  Sidney's  head  was  aching  and 
confused. 

She  sat  there  in  her  chair,  looking  small  and  child- 
ish. The  dawn  was  morning  now  —  horizontal  rays 
of  sunlight  on  the  stable  roof  and  across  the  window- 
sill  of  the  anaesthetizing-room,  where  a  row  of  bottles 
sat  on  a  clean  towel. 


The  tall  man  —  or  was  it  K.  ?  —  looked  at  her,  and 
then  reached  up  and  turned  off  the  electric  light. 
Why,  it  was  K.,  of  course;  and  he  was  putting  out 
the  hall  light  before  he  went  upstairs.  When  the 
light  was  out  everything  was  gray.  She  could  not 
see.  She  slid  very  quietly  out  of  her  chair,  and  lay 
at  his  feet  in  a  dead  faint. 

K.  carried  her  to  the  elevator.  He  held  her  as  he 
had  held  her  that  day  at  the  park  when  she  fell  in 
the  river,  very  carefully,  tenderly,  as  one  holds 
something  infinitely  precious.  Not  until  he  had 
placed  her  on  her  bed  did  she  open  her  eyes.  But 
she  was  conscious  before  that.  She  was  so  tired, 
and  to  be  carried  like  that,  in  strong  arms,  not  know- 
ing where  one  was  going,  or  caring  — 

The  nurse  he  had  summoned  hustled  out  for 
aromatic  ammonia.  Sidney,  lying  among  her  pik 
lows,  looked  up  at  K. 

"How  is  he?" 

"A  little  better.   There's  a  chance,  dear." 

"  I  have  been  so  mixed  up.  All  the  time  I  was  sit- 
ting waiting,  I  kept  thinking  that  it  was  you  who 
were  operating!  Will  he  really  get  well?" 

"It  looks  promising." 

"I  should  like  to  thank  Dr.  Edwardes." 

The  nurse  was  a  long  time  getting  the  ammonia. 
There  was  so  much  to  talk  about:  that  Dr.  Max  had 
been  out  with  Carlotta  Harrison,  and  had  been  shot 
by  a  jealous  woman;  the  inexplicable  return  to  life 
of  the  great  Edwardes ;  and  —  a  fact  the  nurse  her- 

333 


self  was  willing  to  vouch  for,  and  that  thrilled  the 
training-school  to  the  core  —  that  this  very  Ed- 
wardes,  newly  risen,  as  it  were,  and  being  a  miracle 
himself  as  well  as  performing  one,  this  very  Ed- 
wardes,  carrying  Sidney  to  her  bed  and  putting  her 
down,  had  stealthily  kissed  her  on  her  white  fore- 
head. 

The  training-school  doubted  this.  How  could  he 
know  Sidney  Page?  And,  after  all,  the  nurse  had 
only  seen  it  in  the  mirror,  being  occupied  at  the  time 
in  seeing  if  her  cap  was  straight.  The  school,  there' 
fore,  accepted  the  miracle,  but  refused  the  kiss. 

The  miracle  was  no  miracle,  of  course.  But  some- 
thing had  happened  to  K.  that  savored  of  the  mar- 
velous. His  faith  in  himself  was  coming  back  —  not 
strongly,  with  a  rush,  but  with  all  humility.  He  had 
been  loath  to  take  up  the  burden ;  but,  now  that  he 
had  it,  he  breathed  a  sort  of  inarticulate  prayer  to 
be  able  to  carry  it. 

And,  since  men  have  looked  for  signs  since  the  be- 
ginning of  time,  he  too  asked  for  a  sign.  Not,  of 
course,  that  he  put  it  that  way,  or  that  he  was  mak- 
ing terms  with  Providence.  It  was  like  this:  if  Wil- 
son  got  well,  he'd  keep  on  working.  He'd  feel  that, 
perhaps,  after  all,  this  was  meant.  If  Wilson  died  - 

Sidney  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"What  should  I  do  without  you,  K.?"  she  asked 
wistfully. 

"All  you  have  to  do  is  to  want  me." 

334 


His  voice  was  not  too  steady,  and  he  took  her 
pulse  in  a  most  businesslike  way  to  distract  her  at- 
tention from  it. 

"How  very  many  things  you  know!  You  are 
quite  professional  about  pulses." 

Even  then  he  did  not  tell  her.  He  was  not  sure,  to 
be  frank,  that  she'd  be  interested.  Now,  with  Wil- 
son as  he  was,  was  no  time  to  obtrude  his  own  story. 
There  was  time  enough  for  that. 

"  Will  you  drink  some  beef  tea  if  I  send  it  to  you?  " 

"I'm  not  hungry.    I  will,  of  course." 

"And  —  will  you  try  to  sleep?" 

"Sleep,  while  he—" 

"I  promise  to  tell  you  if  there  is  any  change.  I 
shall  stay  with  him." 

"  I'll  try  to  sleep." 

But,  as  he  rose  from  the  chair  beside  her  low  bed. 
she  put  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"K." 

"Yes,  dear." 

"  He  was  out  with  Carlotta.  He  promised,  and  he 
broke  his  promise." 

"There  may  have  been  reasons.  Suppose  we  wait 
until  he  can  explain." 

"How  can  he  explain?"  And,  when  he  hesitated: 
"  I  bring  all  my  troubles  to  you,  as  if  you  had  none. 
Somehow,  I  can't  go  to  Aunt  Harriet,  and  of  course 
mother  —  Carlotta  cares  a  great  deal  for  him.  She 
said  that  I  shot  him.  Does  any  one  really  think 
that?" 

335 


"Of  course  not.    Please  stop  thinking." 

"But  who  did,  K.?  He  had  so  many  friends,  and 
no  enemies  that  I  knew  of." 

Her  mind  seemed  to  stagger  about  in  a  circle, 
making  little  excursions,  but  always  coming  back  to 
the  one  thing. 

"Some  drunken  visitor  to  the  road-house." 

He  could  have  killed  himself  for  the  words  the  mo- 
ment they  were  spoken. 

"They  were  at  a  road-house?" 

"  It  is  not  just  to  judge  any  one  before  you  hear 
the  story." 

She  stirred  restlessly. 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"Half -past  six." 

"  I  must  get  up  and  go  on  duty." 

iie  was  glad  to  be  stern  with  her.  He  forbade  her 
rising.  When  the  nurse  came  in  with  the  belated 
ammonia,  she  found  K.  making  an  arbitrary  ruling, 
and  Sidney  looking  up  at  him  mutinously. 

"  Miss  Page  is  not  to  go  on  duty  to-day.  She  is  to 
stay  in  bed  until  further  orders." 

"Very  well,  Dr.  Edwardes." 

The  confusion  in  Sidney's  mind  cleared  away  sud- 
denly. K.  was  Dr.  Edwardes!  It  was  K.  who  had 
performed  the  miracle  operation  —  K.  who  had 
dared  and  perhaps  won!  Dear  K.,  with  his  steady 
eyes  and  his  long  surgeon's  fingers!  Then,  because 
she  seemed  to  see  ahead  as  well  as  back  into  the  past 
in  that  flash  that  comes  to  the  drowning  and  to  those 

336 


recovering  from  shock,  and  because  she  knew  that 
now  the  little  house  we  _Jd  no  longer  be  home  to  K., 
she  turned  her  face  into  her  pillow  and  cried.  Her 
world  had  fallen  indeed.  Her  lover  was  not  truer 
and  might  be  dying ;  her  friend  would  go  away  to  hk 
own  world,  which  was  not  the  Street. 

K.  left  her  at  last  and  went  back  to  Seventeen, 
where  Dr.  Ed  still  sat  by  the  bed.  Inaction  was 
telling  on  him.  If  Max  would  only  open  his  eyes, 
so  he  could  tell  him  what  had  been  in  his  mind  all 
these  years  —  his  pride  in  him  and  all  that. 

With  a  sort  of  belated  desire  to  make  up  for  where 
he  had  failed,  he  put  the  bag  that  had  been  Max's 
bete  noir  on  the  bedside  table,  and  began  to  clear  it  of 
rubbish  —  odd  bits  of  dirty  cotton,  the  tubing  from 
a  long  defunct  stethoscope,  glass  from  a  broken  bot- 
tle, a  scrap  of  paper  on  which  was  a  memorandum, 
in  his  illegible  writing,  to  send  Max  a  check  for  his 
graduating  suit.  When  K.  came  in,  he  had  the  old 
dog-collar  in  his  hand. 

"Belonged  to  an  old  collie  of  ours,"  he  said  heav- 
ily. "Milkman  ran  over  him  and  killed  him.  Max 
chased  the  wagon  and  licked  the  driver  with  his  own 
whip." 

His  face  worked. 

"  Poor  old  Bobby  Burns!"  he  said.  "We'd  raised 
him  from  a  pup.  Got  him  in  a  grape- basket." 

The  sick  man  opened  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

MAX  had  rallied  well,  and  things  looked  bright  for 
him.  His  patient  did  not  need  him,  but  K.  was 
anxious  to  find  Joe;  so  he  telephoned  the  gas  office 
and  got  a  day  off.  The  sordid  little  tragedy  was  easy 
to  reconstruct,  except  that,  like  Joe,  K.  did  not  be- 
lieve in  the  innocence  of  the  excursion  to  Schwit- 
ter's.  His  spirit  was  heavy  with  the  conviction  that 
he  had  saved  Wilson  to  make  Sidney  ultimately 
wretched. 

For  the  present,  at  least,  K.'s  revealed  identity 
vvas  safe.  Hospitals  keep  their  secrets  well.  And  it 
is  doubtful  if  the  Street  would  have  been  greatly  con- 
cerned even  had  it  known.  It  had  never  heard  of 
Edwardes,  of  the  Edwardes  clinic  or  the  Edwardes 
operation.  Its  medical  knowledge  comprised  the 
two  Wilsons  and  the  osteopath  around  the  corner. 
When,  as  would  happen  soon,  it  learned  of  Max  Wil- 
son's injury,  it  would  be  more  concerned  with  his 
chances  of  recovery  than  with  the  manner  of  it.  That 
was  as  it  should  be. 

But  Joe's  affair  with  Sidney  had  been  the  talk  of 
the  neighborhood.  If  the  boy  disappeared,  a  scandal 
would  be  inevitable.  Twenty  people  had  seen  him  at 
Schwitter's  and  would  know  him  again. 

To  save  Joe,  then,  was  K.'s  first  care. 

At  first  it  seemed  as  if  the  boy  had  frustrated  him. 
.338 


K 


He  had  not  been  home  all  night.  Christine,  waylay- 
ing K.  in  the  little  hall,  told  him  that. 

"Mrs.  Drummond  was  here,"  she  said.  "She  is 
almost  frantic.  She  says  Joe  has  not  been  home  all 
night.  She  says  he  looks  up  to  you,  and  she  thought 
if  you  could  find  him  and  would  talk  to  him  — " 

"Joe  was  with  me  last  night.  We  had  supper  at 
the  White  Springs  Hotel.  Tell  Mrs.  Drummond  he 
was  in  good  spirits,  and  that  she's  not  to  worry.  I 
feel  sure  she  will  hear  from  him  to-day.  Something 
went  wrong  with  his  car,  perhaps,  after  he  left 
me." 

He  bathed  and  shaved  hurriedly.  Katie  brought 
his  coffee  to  his  room,  and  he  drank  it  standing.  He 
was  working  out  a  theory  about  the  boy.  Beyond 
Schwitter's  the  highroad  stretched,  broad  and  invit- 
ing, across  the  State.  Either  he  would  have  gone 
that  way,  his  little  car  eating  up  the  miles  all  that 
night,  or  —  K.  would  not  formulate  his  fear  of 
what  might  have  happened,  even  to  himself. 

As  he  went  down  the  Street,  he  saw  Mrs.  McKee 
in  her  doorway,  with  a  little  knot  of  people  around 
her.  The  Street  was  getting  the  night's  news. 

He  rented  a  car  at  a  local  garage,  and  drove  him- 
self out  into  the  country.  He  was  not  minded  to 
have  any  eyes  on  him  that  day.  He  went  to  Schwit- 
ter's first.  Schwitter  himself  was  not  in  sight.  Bill 
was  scrubbing  the  porch,  and  a  farmhand  was  gath- 
ering bottles  from  the  grass  into  a  box.  The  dead 
lanterns  swung  in  the  morning  air,  and  from  back 

339 


on  the  hill  came  the  staccato  sounds  of  a  reaping' 
machine. 

"Where 's  Schwitter?" 

"At  the  barn  with  the  missus.  Got  a  boy  back 
there." 

Bill  grinned.  He  recognized  K.,  and,  mopping  dry 
a  part  of  the  porch,  shoved  a  chair  on  it. 

"Sit  down.  Well,  how 's  the  man  who  got  his  last 
night?  Dead?" 

"No." 

"County  detectives  were  here  bright  and  early. 
After  the  lady's  husband.  I  guess  we  lose  our  license 
over  this." 

"What  does  Schwitter  say?" 

"Oh,  him!"  Bill's  tone  was  full  of  disgust.  "He 
hopes  we  do.  He  hates  the  place.  Only  man  I  ever 
knew  that  hated  money.  That 's  what  this  house  is 
—  money." 

"  Bill,  did  you  see  the  man  who  fired  that  shot  last 
night?" 

A  sort  of  haze  came  over  Bill's  face,  as  if  he  had 
dropped  a  curtain  before  his  eyes.  But  his  reply 
came  promptly :  - 

"Surest  thing  in  the  world.  Close  to  him  as  you  are 
to  me.  Dark  man,  about  thirty,  small  mustache  —  " 

" Bill,  you're  lying,  and  I  know  it.  Where  is  he?" 

The  barkeeper  kept  his  head,  but  his  color 
changed. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  him."  He  thrust 
his  mop  into  the  pail.  K.  rose. 

340 


"Does  Schwitter  know?" 

"  He  does  n't  know  nothing.  He 's  been  out  at  the 
barn  all  night." 

The  farmhand  had  filled  his  box  and  disappeared 
around  the  corner  of  the  house.  K.  put  his  hand  on 
Bill's  shirt-sleeved  arm. 

"We've  got  to  get  him  away  from  here,  Bill." 

"Get  who  away?" 

"You  know.  The  county  men  may  come  back  tc 
search  the  premises." 

"How  do  I  know  you  are  n't  one  of  them?" 

' '  I  guess  you  know  I  'm  not.  He 's  a  friend  of  mine. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  followed  him  here;  but  I  was 
too  late.  Did  he  take  the  revolver  away  with  him?  " 

"  I  took  it  from  him.     It's  under  the  bar." 

"Get  it  for  me." 

In  sheer  relief,  K.'s  spirits  rose.  After  all,  it  was 
a  good  world :  Tillie  with  her  baby  in  her  arms ;  Wil- 
son conscious  and  rallying;  Joe  safe,  and,  without 
the  revolver,  secure  from  his  own  remorse.  Other 
things  there  were,  too  —  the  feel  of  Sidney's  inert 
body  in  his  arms,  the  way  she  had  turned  to  him  in 
trouble.  It  was  not  what  he  wanted,  this  last,  but  it 
was  worth  while.  The  reaping-machine  was  in  sight 
now;  it  had  stopped  on  the  hillside.  The  men  were 
drinking  out  of  a  bucket  that  flashed  in  the  sun. 

There  was  one  thing  wrong.  What  had  come  over 
Wilson,  to  do  so  reckless  a  thing?  K.,  who  was  a  one- 
woman  man,  could  not  explain  it. 

From  inside  the  bar  Bill  took  a  careful  survey  of 


Le  Moyne.  He  noted  his  tall  figure  and  shabby  suit, 
the  slight  stoop,  the  hair  graying  over  his  ears.  Bar- 
keepers know  men:  that's  a  part  of  the  job.  After 
his  survey  he  went  behind  the  bar  and  got  the  re- 
volver from  under  an  overturned  pail. 

K.  thrust  it  into  his  pocket. 

"Now,"  he  said  quietly,  "where  is  he?" 

"In  my  room  —  top  of  the  house." 

K.  followed  Bill  up  the  stairs.  He  remembered 
the  day  when  he  had  sat  waiting  in  the  parlor,  and 
had  heard  Tillie's  slow  step  coming  down.  And  last 
night  he  himself  had  carried  down  Wilson's  uncon- 
scious figure.  Surely  the  wages  of  sin  were  wretched- 
ness and  misery.  None  of  it  paid.  No  one  got  away 
with  it. 

The  room  under  the  eaves  was  stifling.  An  un- 
made bed  stood  in  a  corner.  From  nails  in  the  raft- 
ers hung  Bill's  holiday  wardrobe.  A  tin  cup  and  a 
cracked  pitcher  of  spring  water  stood  on  the  win- 
dow-sill. 

Joe  was  sitting  in  the  corner  farthest  from  the 
window.  When  the  door  swung  open,  he  looked  up. 
He  showed  no  interest  on  seeing  K.,  who  had  to 
stoop  to  enter  the  low  room. 

"Hello,  Joe." 

"  I  thought  you  were  the  police." 

"Not  much.  Open  that  window,  Bill.  This  place 
Is  stifling." 

"Is  he  dead?" 

"No,  indeed." 

.342 


"I  wish  I'd  killed  him!" 

"Oh,  no,  you  don't.  You're  damned  glad  you 
did  n't,  and  so  am  I." 

"What  will  they  do  with  me?" 

"Nothing  until  they  find  you.  I  came  to  talk 
about  that.  They'd  better  not  find  you." 

"Huh!" 

"It's  easier  than  it  sounds." 

K.  sat  down  on  the  bed. 

"If  I  only  had  some  money!"  he  said.  "But 
never  mind  about  that,  Joe;  I'll  get  some." 

Loud  calls  from  below  took  Bill  out  of  the  room. 
As  he  closed  the  door  behind  him,  K.'s  voice  took  on 
a  new  tone: — 

"Joe,  why  did  you  do  it?" 

"You  know." 

"You  saw  him  with  somebody  at  the  White 
Springs,  and  followed  them?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  know  who  was  with  him?" 

"Yes,  and  so  do  you.  Don't  go  into  that.  I  did 
it,  and  I'll  stand  by  it." 

"Has  it  occurred  to  you  that  you  made  a  mis- 
take?" 

"Go  and  tell  that  to  somebody  who'll  believe 
you!"  he  sneered.  "They  came  here  and  took  a 
room.  I  met  him  coming  out  of  it.  I  'd  do  it  again 
if  I  had  a  chance,  and  do  it  better." 

"It  was  not  Sidney." 

"Aw,  chuck  it!" 

343 


"  It's  a  fact.  I  got  here  not  two  minutes  after  you 
left.  The  girl  was  still  there.  It  was  some  one  else. 
Sidney  was  not  out  of  the  hospital  last  night.  She 
attended  a  lecture,  and  then  an  operation." 

Joe  listened.  It  was  undoubtedly  a  relief  to  him 
to  know  that  it  had  not  been  Sidney;  but  if  K.  ex- 
pected any  remorse,  he  did  not  get  it. 

"  If  he  is  that  sort,  he  deserves  what  he  got,"  said 
the  boy  grimly. 

And  K.  had  no  reply.  But  Joe  was  glad  to  talk. 
The  hours  he  had  spent  alone  in  the  little  room  had 
been  very. bitter,  and  preceded  by  a  time  that  he 
shuddered  to  remember.  K.  got  it  by  degrees  —  his 
descent  of  the  staircase,  leaving  Wilson  lying  on  the 
landing  above ;  his  mad  excursion  into  the  darkness, 
until  his  gasolene  gave  out ;  his  resolve  to  walk  back 
and  surrender  himself  at  Schwitter's,  so  that  there 
could  be  no  mistake  as  to  who  had  committed  the 
crime. 

"I  intended  to  write  a  confession  and  then  shoot 
myself,"  he  told  K.  "  But  the  barkeeper  got  my  gun 
out  of  my  pocket.  And  —  " 

After  a  pause:  "Does  she  know  who  did  it?" 

"Sidney?   No." 

"Then,  if  he  gets  better,  she'll  marry  him  any- 
how." 

"Possibly.  That's  not  up  to  us,  Joe.  The  thing 
we've  got  to  do  is  to  hush  the  thing  up,  and  get 
you  away." 

"I'd  go  to  Cuba,  but  I  have  n't  the  money." 
344 


K.  rose.    "I  think  I  can  get  it." 

He  turned  in  the  doorway. 

"Sidney  need  never  know  who  did  it." 

"I'm  not  ashamed  of  it."  But  his  face  showed 
relief. 

There  are  times  when  some  cataclysm  tears  down 
the  walls  of  reserve  between  men.  That  time  had 
come  for  Joe,  and  to  a  lesser  extent  for  K.  The  boy 
rose  and  followed  him  to  the  door. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  her  the  whole  thing?  —  the 
whole  filthy  story? "  he  asked.  "She'd  never  look  at 
him  again.  You  're  crazy  about  her.  I  have  n't  got 
a  chance.  It  would  give  you  one." 

"  I  want  her,  God  knows! "  said  K.  "  But  not  that 
way,  boy." 

Schwitter  had  taken  in  five  hundred  dollars  the 
previous  day. 

"Five  hundred  gross,"  the  little  man  hastened  to 
explain.  "But  you're  right,  Mr.  Le  Moyne.  And 
I  guess  it  would  please  her.  It's  going  hard  with  her, 
just  now,  that  she  has  n't  any  women  friends  about. 
It's  in  the  safe,  in  cash;  I  have  n't  had  time  to  take 
it  to  the  bank."  He  seemed  to  apologize  to  himself 
for  the  unbusinesslike  proceeding  of  lending  an  en- 
tire day's  gross  receipts  on  no  security.  "  It's  bettei 
to  get  him  away,  of  course.  It's  good  business.  I 
have  tried  to  have  an  orderly  place.  If  they  arrest 
him  here  — 

His  voice  trailed  off.  He  had  come  a  far  way  from 
the  day  he  had  walked  down  the  Street  and  eyed 

345 


its  poplars  with  appraising  eyes  —  a  far  way.  Now 
he  had  a  son,  and  the  child's  mother  looked  at  him 
with  tragic  eyes.  It  was  arranged  that  K.  should  go 
back  to  town,  returning  late  that  night  to  pick  up 
Joe  at  a  lonely  point  on  the  road,  and  to  drive  him 
to  a  railroad  station.  But,  as  it  happened,  he  went 
back  that  afternoon. 

He  had  told  Schwitter  he  would  be  at  the  hospital, 
and  the  message  found  him  there.  Wilson  was  hold- 
ing his  own,  conscious  now  and  making  a  hard  fight. 
The  message  from  Schwitter  was  very  brief:  — 

"Something  has  happened,  and  Tillie  wants  you. 
I  don't  like  to  trouble  you  again,  but  she  —  wants 
you." 

K.  was  rather  gray  of  face  by  that  time,  having 
had  no  sleep  and  little  food  since  the  day  before. 
But  he  got  into  the  rented  machine  again  —  its 
rental  was  running  up ;  he  tried  to  forget  it  —  and 
turned  it  toward  Hillfoot.  But  first  of  all  he  drove 
back  to  the  Street,  and  walked  without  ringing 
into  Mrs.  McKee's. 

Neither  a  year's  time  nor  Mrs.  McKee's  approach- 
ing change  of  state  had  altered  the  "  mealing"  house. 
The  ticket-punch  still  lay  on  the  hat-rack  in  the 
hall.  Through  the  rusty  screen  of  the  back  parlor 
window  one  viewed  the  spiraea,  still  in  need  of  spray- 
ing. Mrs.  McKee  herself  was  in  the  pantry,  placing 
one  slice  of  tomato  and  three  small  lettuce  leaves  on 
each  of  an  interminable  succession  of  plates. 

K.,  who  was  privileged,  walked  back. 
346 


"I've  got  a  car  at  the  door,"  he  announced, 
"and  there's  nothing  so  extravagant  as  an  empty 
seat  in  an  automobile.  Will  you  take  a  ride?" 

Mrs,  McKee  agreed.  Being  of  the  class  who  be» 
lieve  a  boudoir  cap  the  ideal  headdress  for  a  motor 
car,  she  apologized  for  having  none. 

"If  I'd  known  you  were  coming  I  would  have 
borrowed  a  cap,"  she  said.  "  Miss  Tripp,  third  floor 
front,  has  a  nice  one.  If  you  '11  take  me  in  my  toque — " 

K.  said  he'd  take  her  in  her  toque,  and  waited 
with  some  anxiety,  having  not  the  faintest  idea  what 
a  toque  was.  He  was  not  without  other  anxieties. 
What  if  the  sight  of  Tillie's  baby  did  not  do  all  that 
he  expected?  Good  women  could  be  most  cruel. 
And  Schwitter  had  been  very  vague.  But  here  K. 
was  more  sure  of  himself:  the  little  man's  voice  had 
expressed  as  exactly  as  words  the  sense  of  a  be- 
reavement that  was  not  a  grief. 

He  was  counting  on  Mrs.  McKee's  old  fondness 
for  the  girl  to  bring  them  together.  But,  as  they 
neared  the  house  with  its  lanterns  and  tables,  its 
whitewashed  stones  outlining  the  drive,  its  smal? 
upper  window  behind  which  Joe  was  waiting  foi 
night,  his  heart  failed  him,  rather.  He  had  a  mascu- 
line dislike  for  meddling,  and  yet —  Mrs.  McKee 
had  suddenly  seen  the  name  in  the  wooden  arch  over 
the  gate:  "Schwitter's." 

"I'm  not  going  in  there,  Mr.  Le  Moyne." 

"Tillie's  not  in  the  house.  She's  back  in  the 
J-arn." 


J'In  the  barn!" 

"She  did  n't  approve  of  all  that  went  on  there,  s<3 
she  moved  oat.  It 's  very  comfortable  and  clean ;  it 
smells  of  hay.  You  'd  be  surprised  how  nice  it  is." 

"The  like  of  her!"  snorted  Mrs.  McKee.  "She's 
late  with  her  conscience,  I'm  thinking." 

"Last  night,"  K.  remarked,  hands  on  the  wheel, 
but  car  stopped,  "she  had  a  child  there.  It  —  it's 
rather  like  very  old  times,  is  n't  it?  A  man-child, 
Mrs.  McKee,  not  in  a  manger,  of  course." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  Mrs.  McKee's 
tone,  which  had  been  fierce  at  the  beginning,  ended 
feebly. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  in  and  visit  her,  as  you  would 
any  woman  who'd  had  a  new  baby  and  needed  a 
friend.  Lie  a  little  —  "  Mrs.  McKee  gasped.  "Tell 
her  the  baby 's  pretty.  Tell  her  you  Ve  been  wanting 
to  see  her."  His  tone  was  suddenly  stern.  "Lie  a 
little,  for  your  soul's  sake." 

She  wavered,  and  while  she  wavered  he  drove  her 
in  under  the  arch  with  the  shameful  name,  and  back 
to  the  barn.  But  there  he  had  the  tact  to  remain  in 
the  car,  and  Mrs.  McKee's  peace  with  Tillie  was 
iiiade  alone.  When,  five  minutes  later,  she  beck- 
oned him  from  the  door  of  the  barn,  her  eyes  were 
red. 

"Come  in,  Mr.  K.,"  she  said.  "The  wife 's  dead, 
poor  thing.  They're  going  to  be  married  right 
away." 

The  clergyman  was  coming  along  the  path  with 
348 


Schwitter  at  his  heels.  K.  entered  the  barn.  1  t  the 
door  to  Tillie's  room  he  uncovered  his  head  The 
child  was  asleep  at  her  breast. 

The  five  thousand  dollar  check  from  Mr.  Loren? 
iiad  saved  Palmer  Howe's  credit.  On  the  strength 
of  the  deposit,  he  borrowed  a  thousand  at  the  bank 
with  which  he  meant  to  pay  his  bills,  arrears  at  the 
University  and  Country  Clubs,  a  hundred  dollars 
lost  throwing  aces  with  poker  dice,  and  various 
small  obligations  of  Christine's. 

The  immediate  result  of  the  money  was  good. 
He  drank  nothing  for  a  week,  went  into  the  details  of 
the  new  venture  with  Christine's  father,  sat  at  home 
with  Christine  on  her  balcony  in  the  evenings, 
With  the  knowledge  that  he  could  pay  his  debts,  he 
postponed  the  day.  He  liked  the  feeling  of  a  bank 
account  in  four  figures. 

The  first  evening  or  two  Christine's  pleasure  in 
having  him  there  gratified  him.  He  felt  kind,  mag- 
nanimous, almost  virtuous.  On  the  third  evening  he 
was  restless.  It  occurred  to  him  that  his  wife  was 
beginning  to  take  his  presence  as  a  matter  of  course. 
He  wanted  cold  bottled  beer.  When  he  found  that 
the  ice  was  out  and  the  beer  warm  and  flat,  he  was 
furious. 

Christine  had  been  making  a  fight,  although  her 
heart  was  only  half  in  it.  She  was  resolutely  good- 
humored,  ignored  the  past,  dressed  for  Palmer  in 
the  things  he  liked.  They  still  took  their  dinner? 


at  the  Lorenz  house  up  the  street.  When  she  saw 
that  the  haphazard  table  service  there  irritated  himt 
she  coaxed  her  mother  into  getting  a  butler. 

The  Street  sniffed  at  the  butler  behind  his  stately 
back.  Secretly  and  in  its  heart,  it  was  proud  of  him. 
With  a  half-dozen  automobiles,  and  Christine  Howe 
putting  on  low  neck  in  the  evenings,  and  now  a.  but- 
ler, not  to  mention  Harriet  Kennedy's  Mimi,  it 
ceased  to  pride  itself  on  its  commonplaceness,  igno- 
rant of  the  fact  that  in  its  very  lack  of  affectation 
had  lain  its  charm. 

On  the  night  that  Joe  shot  Max  Wilson,  Palmer 
was  noticeably  restless.  He  had  seen  Grace  Irving 
that  day  for  the  first  time  but  once  since  the  motor 
accident.  To  do  him  justice,  his  dissipation  of  the 
past  few  months  had  not  included  women. 

The  girl  had  a  strange  fascination  for  him.  Per- 
haps she  typified  the  care-free  days  before  his  mar- 
riage; perhaps  the  attraction  was  deeper,  funda- 
mental. He  met  her  in  the  street  the  day  before  Max 
Wilson  was  shot.  The  sight  of  her  walking  sedately 
along  in  her  shop-girl's  black  dress  had  been  enough 
tc  set  his  pulses  racing.  When  he  saw  that  she 
tfieant  to  pass  him,  he  fell  into  step  beside  her. 

"I  believe  you  were  going  to  cut  me!" 

"I  was  in  a  hurry." 

"Still  in  the  store?" 

"Yes."  And,  after  a  second's  hesitation:  "I'm 
keeping  straight,  too." 

"How  are  you  getting  along?" 
350 


*' Pretty  well.    I've  had  my  salary  raised." 

" Do  you  have  to  walk  as  fast  as  this?" 

"  I  said  I  was  in  a  hurry.  Once  a  week  I  get  off  a 
Jttle  early.  I  —  " 

He  eyed  her  suspiciously. 

"Early!  What  for?" 

"I  go  to  the  hospital.  The  Rosenfeld  boy  is  still 
there,  you  know." 

"Oh!" 

But  a  moment  later  he  burst  out  irritably:  — 

"That  was  an  accident,  Grace.  The  boy  took  the 
chance  when  he  engaged  to  drive  the  car.  I  'm  sorry, 
of  course.  I  dream  of  the  little  devil  sometimes, 
lying  there.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  he  added 
magnanimously.  "I'll  stop  in  and  talk  to  Wilson. 
He  ought  to  have  done  something  before  this." 

"The  boy's  not  strong  enough  yet.  I  don't  think 
you  can  do  anything  for  him,  unless  — " 

The  monstrous  injustice  of  the  thing  overcame 
•her.  Palmer  and  she  walking  about,  and  the  boy 
lying  on  his  hot  bed !  She  choked. 

"Well?" 

"He  worries  about  his  mother.  If  you  could  give 
her  some  money,  it  would  help." 

"Money!   Good  Heavens  —  I  owe  everybody." 

"You  owe  him  too,  don't  you?  He'll  never  walk 
again." 

"I  can't  give  them  ten  dollars.  I  don't  see  that 
I  'm  under  any  obligation,  anyhow.  I  paid  his  board 
for  two  months  in  the  hospital." 


When  she  did  not  acknowledge  this  generosity,  — 
amounting  to  forty-eight  dollars,  —  his  irritation 
grew.  Her  silence  was  an  accusation.  Her  manner 
galled  him,  into  the  bargain.  She  was  too  calm  in 
his  presence,  too  cold.  Where  she  had  once  palpi- 
tated visibly  under  his  warm  gaze,  she  was  now  self- 
possessed  and  quiet.  Where  it  had  pleased  his  pride 
to  think  that  he  had  given  her  up,  he  found  that  the 
shoe  was  on  the  other  foot. 

At  the  entrance  to  a  side  street  she  stopped. 

"I  turn  off  here." 

"May  I  come  and  see  you  sometime?" 

41  No,  please." 

"That's  flat,  is  it?" 

"It  is,  Palmer." 

He  swung  around  savagely  and  left  her. 

The  next  day  he  drew  the  thousand  dollars  from 
the  bank.  A  good  many  of  his  debts  he  wanted  to 
pay  in  cash ;  there  was  no  use  putting  checks  through, 
with  incriminating  indorsements.  Also,  he  liked  the 
idea  of  carrying  a  roll  of  money  around.  The  big 
fellows  at  the  clubs  always  had  a  wad  and  peeled 
off  bills  like  skin  off  an  onion.  He  took  a  couple  of 
drinks  to  celebrate  his  approaching  immunity  from 
debt. 

He  played  auction  bridge  that  afteinoon  in  a 
private  room  at  one  of  the  hotels  with  the  three 
men  he  had  lunched  with.  Luck  seemed  to  be  with 
him.  He  won  eighty  dollars,  and  thrust  it  loose  in 
his  trousers  pocket .  Money  seemed  to  bring  money! 

352 


K 


If  he  could  carry  the  thousand  around  for  a  day  of 
so,  something  pretty  good  might  come  of  it. 

He  had  been  drinking  a  little  all  afternoon. 
When  the  game  was  over,  he  bought  drinks  to  cele- 
brate his  victory.  The  losers  treated,  too,  to  show 
they  were  no  pikers.  Palmer  was  in  high  spirits.  He 
offered  to  put  up  the  eighty  and  throw  for  it.  The 
losers  mentioned  dinner  and  various  engagements. 

Palmer  did  not  want  to  go  home.  Christine  would 
greet  him  with  raised  eyebrows.  They  would  eat 
a  stuffy  Lorenz  dinner,  and  in  the  evening  Christine 
would  sit  in  the  lamplight  and  drive  him  mad  with 
soft  music.  He  wanted  lights,  noise,  the  smiles  of 
women.  Luck  was  with  him,  and  he  wanted  to  be 
happy. 

At  nine  o'clock  that  night  he  found  Grace.  She 
had  moved  to  a  cheap  apartment  which  she  shared 
with  two  other  girls  from  the  store.  The  others  were 
out.  It  was  his  lucky  day,  surely. 

His  drunkenness  was  of  the  mind,  mostly.  His 
muscles  were  well  controlled.  The  lines  from  his 
nose  to  the  corners  of  his  mouth  were  slightly  ac- 
centuated, his  eyes  open  a  trifle  wider  than  usual. 
That  and  a  slight  paleness  of  the  nostrils  were  the 
only  evidences  of  his  condition.  But  Grace  knew 
•the  signs. 

"You  can't  come  in." 

"Of  course  I'm  coming  in." 

She  retreated  before  him,  her  eyes  watchful.  Men 
in  his  condition  were  apt  to  be  as  quick  with  a  blo\* 

353 


as  with  a  caress.    But,  having  gained  his  point,  he 
was  amiable. 

"Get  your  things  on  and  come  out.  We  can  take 
'n  a  roof- garden." 

"  I  've  told  you  I  'm  not  doing  that  sort  of  thing." 

He  was  ugly  in  a  flash. 

"You've  got  somebody  else  on  the  string." 

"Honestly,  no.  There  —  there  has  never  been 
anybody  else,  Palmer." 

He  caught  her  suddenly  and  jerked  her  toward  him. 

"You  let  me  hear  of  anybody  else,  and  I'll  cut 
the  guts  out  of  him!" 

He  held  her  for  a  second,  his  face  black  and  fierce. 
Then,  slowly  and  inevitably,  he  drew  her  into  his 
arms.  He  was  drunk,  and  she  knew  it.  But,  in  the 
queer  loyalty  of  her  class,  he  was  the  only  man  she 
had  cared  for.  She  cared  now.  She  took  him  for  that 
moment,  felt  his  hot  kisses  on  her  mouth,  her  throat, 
submitted  while  his  rather  brutal  hands  bruised  her 
arms  in  fierce  caresses.  Then  she  put  him  from  her 
resolutely. 

"Now  you're  going." 

"The  hell  I'm  going!" 

But  he  was  less  steady  than  he  had  been.  The 
heat  of  the  little  flat  brought  more  blood  to  his  head. 
He  wavered  as  he  stood  just  inside  the  door. 

"You  must  go  back  to  your  wife." 

"She  does  n't  want  me.  She's  in  love  with  a  fel- 
low at  the  house." 

"Palmer,  hush!" 

354 


"Lemme  come  in  arid  sit  down,  won't  you?" 

She  let  him  pass  her  into  the  sitting-room.  He 
dropped  into  a  chair. 

"You've  turned  me  down,  and  now  Christine  — 
she  thinks  I  don't  know.  I 'm  no  fool;  I  see  a  lot  of 
things.  I'm  no  good.  I  know  that  I've  made  her 
miserable.  But  I  made  a  merry  little  hell  for  you 
too,  and  you  don't  kick  about  it." 

"You  know  that." 

She  was  watching  him  gravely.  She  had  never 
seen  him  just  like  this.  Nothing  else,  perhaps,  could 
have  shown  her  so  well  what  a  broken  reed  he  was. 

"I  got  you  in  wrong.  You  were  a  good  girl 
before  I  knew  you.  You're  a  good  girl  now.  I'm 
not  going  to  do  you  any  harm,  I  swear  it.  I  only 
wanted  to  take  you  out  for  a  good  time.  I  Ve  got 
money.  Look  here!" 

He  drew  out  the  roll  of  bills  and  showed  it  to  her. 
Her  eyes  opened  wide.  She  had  never  known  him 
to  have  much  money. 

"Lots  more  where  that  comes  from." 

A  new  look  flashed  into  her  eyes,  not  cupidity, 
but  purpose. 

She  was  instantly  cunning. 

"Are  n't  you  going  to  give  me  some  of  that?" 

"What  for?" 

"I  —  I  want  some  clothes." 

The  very  drunk  have  the  intuition  sometimes  of 
savages  or  brute  beasts. 

"You  lie." 

355 


"I  want  it  for  Johnny  Rosenfeld." 

He  thrust  it  back  into  his  pocket,  but  his  hand 
retained  its  grasp  of  it. 

"That's  it,"  he  complained.  "Don't  lemme  be 
happy  for  a  minute!  Throw  it  all  up  to  me!" 

"You  give  me  that  for  the  Rosenfeld  boy,  and  I  'II 
go  out  with  you." 

"If  I  give  you  all  that,  I  won't  have  any  money 
to  go  out  with!" 

But  his  eyes  were  wavering.  She  could  see  victory. 

"Take  off  enough  for  the  evening." 

But  he  drew  himself  up. 

"I'm  no  piker,"  he  said  largely.  "Whole  hog  or 
nothing.  Take  it." 

He  held  it  out  to  her,  and  from  another  pocket 
produced  the  eighty  dollars,  in  crushed  and  wrinkled 
notes. 

"It's  my  lucky  day,"  he  said  thickly.  "Plenty 
more  where  this  came  from.  Do  anything  for  you. 
Give  it  to  the  little  devil.  I — "  He  yawned.  "God, 
this  place  is  hot!" 

His  head  dropped  back  on  his  chair;  he  propped 
his  sagging  legs  on  a  stool.  She  knew  him  —  knew 
that  he  would  sleep  almost  all  night.  She  would 
have  to  make  up  something  to  tell  the  other  girls; 
but  no  matter  —  she  could  attend  to  that  later. 

She  had  never  had  a  thousand  dollars  in  her  hands 
before.  It  seemed  smaller  than  that  amount.  Per- 
haps he  had  lied  to  her.  She  paused,  in  pinning  on 
her  hat,  to  count  the  bills.  It  was  all  there. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

K.  SPENT  all  of  the  evening  of  that  day  with  Wil- 
son. He  was  not  to  go  for  Joe  until  eleven  o'clock. 
The  injured  man's  vitality  was  standing  him  in 
good  stead.  He  had  asked  for  Sidney  and  she  was 
at  his  bedside.  Dr.  Ed  had  gone. 

"I'm  going,  Max.  The  office  is  full,  they  tell 
me,"  he  said,  bending  over  the  bed.  "I'll  come  in 
later,  and  if  they  '11  make  me  a  shakedown,  I  '11  stay 
with  you  to-night." 

The  answer  was  faint,  broken  but  distinct.  "Get 
some  sleep  ...  I  've  been  a  poor  stick  .  .  .  try  to  do 
better  —  '  His  roving  eyes  fell  on  the  dog  collar  on 
the  stand.  He  smiled,  "Good  old  Bob!"  he  said, 
and  put  his  hand  over  Dr.  Ed's,  as  it  lay  on  the  bed. 

K.  found  Sidney  in  the  room,  not  sitting,  but 
standing  by  the  window.  The  sick  man  was  dozing. 
One  shaded  light  burned  in  a  far  corner.  She  turned 
slowly  and  met  his  eyes.  It  seemed  to  K.  that  she 
looked  at  him  as  if  she  had  never  really  seen  him 
before,  and  he  was  right.  Readjustments  are  always 
difficult. 

Sidney  was  trying  to  reconcile  the  K.  she  had 
known  so  well  with  this  new  K.,  no  longer  obscure, 
although  still  shabby,  whose  height  had  suddenly 
become  presence,  whose  quiet  was  the  quiet  of  in- 
finite power. 

357 


She  was  suddenly  shy  of  him,  as  he  stood  look 
ing  down  at  her.    He  saw  the  gleam  of  her  engage- 
ment ring  on  her  finger.    It  seemed  almost  defiant. 
As  though  she  had  meant  by  wearing  it  to  empha- 
size her  belief  in  her  lover. 

They  did  not  speak  beyond  their  greeting,  until 
he  had  gone  over  the  record.  Then:  — 

"We  can't  talk  here.   I  want  to  talk  to  you,  K.'9 

He  led  the  way  into  the  corridor.  It  was  very 
dim.  Far  away  was  the  night  nurse's  desk,  with  its 
lamp,  its  annunciator,  its  pile  of  records.  The  pas- 
sage floor  reflected  the  light  on  glistening  boards. 

"I  have  been  thinking  until  I  am  almost  crazy, 
K.  And  now  I  know  how  it  happened.  It  was  Joe." 

"The  principal  thing  is,  not  how  it  happened, 
but  that  he  is  going  to  get  well,  Sidney." 

She  stood  looking  down,  twisting  her  ring  around 
her  finger. 

"Is  Joe  in  any  danger?" 

"We  are  going  to  get  him  away  to-night.  He 
wants  to  go  to  Cuba.  He'll  get  off  safely,  I  think." 

"We  are  going  to  get  him  away!  You  are,  you 
mean.  You  shoulder  all  our  troubles,  K.,  as  if  they 
were  your  own." 

"I?"  He  was  genuinely  surprised.  "Oh,  I  see. 
You  mean  —  but  my  part  in  getting  Joe  off  is 
practically  nothing.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Schwitter 
has  put  up  the  money.  My  total  capital  in  the 
world,  after  paying  the  taxicab  to-day,  is  seven 
dollars." 

358 


"The  taxicab?" 

"By  Jove,  I  was  forgetting!  Best  news  you  ever 
heard  of!  Tillie  married  and  has  a  baby  —  all  in 
twenty-four  hours!  Boy  —  they  named  it  Le  Moyne. 
Squalled  like  a  maniac  when  the  water  went  on  its 
head.  I  —  I  took  Mrs.  McKee  out  in  a  hired  ma- 
chine. That's  what  happened  to  my  capital."  He 
grinned  sheepishly.  "She  said  she  would  have  to  go 
in  her  toque.  I  had  awful  qualms.  I  thought  it  was 
a  wrapper." 

"You,  of  course,"  she  said.  "You  find  Max  and 
save  him  —  don't  look  like  that!  You  did,  did  n't 
you?  And  you  get  Joe  away,  borrowing  money  to 
send  him.  And  as  if  that  is  n't  enough,  when  you 
ought  to  have  been  getting  some  sleep,  you  are  out 
taking  a  friend  to  Tillie,  and  being  godfather  to  the 
baby." 

He  looked  uncomfortable,  almost  guilty. 

"I  had  a  day  off.   I—" 

"When  I  look  back  and  remember  how  all  these 
months  I've  been  talking  about  service,  and  you 
said  nothing  at  all,  and  all  the  time  you  were  living 
what  I  preached  —  I'm  so  ashamed,  K." 

He  would  not  allow  that.  It  distressed  him.  She 
saw  that,  and  tried  to  smile. 

"When  does  Joe  go?" 

"To-night.  I'm  to  take  him  across  the  country 
to  the  railroad.  I  was  wondering — " 

"Yes?" 

"'  I  'd  better  explain  first  what  happened,  and  why 

359 


at  happened.  Then  if  you  are  willing  to  send  him  a 
line,  I  think  it  would  help.  He  saw  a  girl  in  white 
in  the  car  and  followed  in  his  own  machine.  He 
thought  it  was  you,  of  course.  He  did  n't  like  the 
idea  of  your  going  to  Schwitter's.  Carlotta  was 
taken  ill.  And  Schwitter  and  —  and  Wilson  took 
her  upstairs  to  a  room." 

"Do  you  believe  that,  K.?" 

"I  do.  He  saw  Max  coming  out  and  misunder- 
stood. He  fired  at  him  then." 

"He  did  it  for  me.  I  feel  very  guilty,  K.,  as  if  it 
all  comes  back  to  me.  I  '11  write  to  him,  of  course. 
Poor  Joe!" 

He  watched  her  go  down  the  hall  toward  the 
night  nurse's  desk.  He  would  have  given  every- 
thing just  then  for  the  right  to  call  her  back,  to  take 
her  in  his  arms  and  comfort  her.  She  seemed  so 
alone.  He  himself  had  gone  through  loneliness  and 
heartache,  and  the  shadow  was  still  on  him.  He 
waited  until  he  saw  her  sit  down  at  the  desk  and 
take  up  a  pen.  Then  he  went  back  into  the  quiet 
room. 

He  stood  by  the  bedside,  looking  down.  Wilson 
was  breathing  quietly:  his  color  was  coming  up,  as 
he  rallied  from  the  shock.  In  K.'s  mind  now  was 
just  one  thought  —  to  bring  him  through  for  Sid- 
ney, and  then  to  go  away.  He  might  follow  Joe  to 
Cuba.  There  were  chances  there.  He  could  do  sani- 
tation work,  or  he  might  try  the  Canal. 

The  Street  would  go  on  working  out  its  own  sal* 
360 


vation.  He  would  have  to  think  of  something  for 
the  Rosenfelds.  And  he  was  worried  about  Chris- 
tine. But  there  again,  perhaps  it  would  be  better 
tf  he  went  away.  Christine's  story  would  have  tc 
work  itself  out.  His  hands  were  tied. 

He  was  glad  in  a  way  that  Sidney  had  asked  no 
questions  about  him,  had  accepted  his  new  identity 
so  calmly.  It  had  been  overshadowed  by  the  night 
tragedy.  It  would  have  pleased  him  if  she  had 
shown  more  interest,  of  course.  But  he  understood. 
It  was  enough,  he  told  himself,  that  he  had  helped 
her,  that  she  counted  on  him.  But  more  and  more  he 
knew  in  his  heart  that  it  was  not  enough.  "  I  'd  better 
get  away  from  here,"  he  told  himself  savagely. 

And  having  taken  the  first  step  toward  flight,  as 
happens  in  such  cases,  he  was  suddenly  panicky 
with  fear,  fear  that  he  would  get  out  of  hand,  and 
take  her  in  his  arms,  whether  or  no ;  a  temptation  to 
run  from  temptation,  to  cut  everything  and  go  with 
Joe  that  night.  But  there  his  sense  of  humor  saved 
him.  That  would  be  a  sight  for  the  gods,  two  de- 
feated lovers  flying  together  under  the  soft  Septem- 
ber moon. 

Some  one  entered  the  room.  He  thought  it  was 
Sidney  and  turned  with  the  light  in  his  eyes  that 
was  only  for  her.  It  was  Carlotta. 

She  was  not  in  uniform.  She  wore  a  dark  skirt 
and  white  waist  and  her  high  heels  tapped  as  she 
crossed  the  room.  She  came  directly  to  him. 

"He  is  better,  is  n't  he?" 
361 


"He  is  rallying.  Of  course  it  will  be  a  day  or  two 
before  we  are  quite  sure." 

She  stood  looking  down  at  Wilson's  quiet  figure. 

"I  guess  you  know  I've  been  crazy  about  him," 
she  said  quietly.  "Well,  that's  all  over.  He  nevei 
really  cared  for  me.  I  played  his  game  and  I  —  lost. 
I've  been  expelled  from  the  school." 

Quite  suddenly  she  dropped  on  her  knees  beside 
the  bed,  and  put  her  cheek  close  to  the  sleeping 
man's  hand.  When  after  a  moment  she  rose,  she 
was  controlled  again,  calm,  very  white. 

"Will  you  tell  him,  Dr.  Edwardes,  when  he  is 
conscious,  that  I  came  in  and  said  good-bye?" 

"I  will,  of  course.  Do  you  want  to  leave  any 
other  message?" 

She  hesitated,  as  if  the  thought  tempted  her 
Then  she  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

''What  would  be  the  use?  He  does  n't  want  any 
message  from  me." 

She  turned  toward  the  door.  But  K.  could  net 
let  her  go  like  that.  Her  face  frightened  him.  It  wf.s 
too  calm,  too  controlled.  He  followed  her  across 
the  room. 

"What  are  your  plans?" 

"  I  have  n't  any.  I  'm  about  through  with  my 
training,  but  I've  lost  my  diploma." 

"  I  don't  like  to  see  you  going  away  like  this." 

She  avoided  his  eyes,  but  his  kindly  tone  did  what 
neither  the  Head  nor  the  Executive  Committee  had 
done  that  day.  It  shook  her  control. 

362 


K. 


"What  does  it  matter  to  you?  You  don't  owe  me 
anything." 

"  Perhaps  not.  One  way  and  another  I  Ve  known 
you  a  long  time." 

"You  never  knew  anything  very  good." 

"I'll  tell  you  where  I  live,  and  — " 

"I  know  where  you  live." 

"Will  you  come  to  see  me  there?  We  may  be 
able  to  think  of  something." 

"What  is  there  to  think  of?  This  story  will  follow 
me  wherever  I  go!  I've  tried  twice  for  a  diploma 
and  failed.  What's  the  use?" 

But  in  the  end  he  prevailed  on  her  to  promise  not 
to  leave  the  city  until  she  had  seen  him  again.  It 
was  not  until  she  had  gone,  a  straight  figure  with 
haunted  eyes,  that  he  reflected  whimsically  that 
once  again  he  had  defeated  his  own  plans  for  flight. 

In  the  corridor  outside  the  door  Carlotta  hesi- 
tated. Why  not  go  back?  Why  not  tell  him?  He 
was  kind;  he  was  going  to  do  something  for  her. 
But  the  old  instinct  of  self-preservation  prevailed. 
She  went  on  to  her  room. 

Sidney  brought  her  letter  to  Joe  back  to  K.  She 
^ras  flushed  with  the  effort  and  with  a  new  excite- 
ment. 

"This  is  the  letter,  K.,  and  —  I  have  n't  been 
able  to  say  what  I  wanted,  exactly.  You'll  let  him 
know,  won't  you,  how  I  feel,  and  how  I  blame  my- 
self?" 

K.  promised  gravely. 

363 


"And  the  most  remarkable  thing  has  happened 
What  a  day  this  has  been!  Somebody  has  sent 
johnny  Rosenfeld  a  lot  of  money.  The  ward  nurse 
wants  you  to  come  back." 

The  ward  had  settled  for  the  night.  The  well- 
ordered  beds  of  the  daytime  were  chaotic  now,  torn 
apart  by  tossing  figures.  The  night  was  hot  and 
an  electric  fan  hummed  in  a  far  corner.  Under  its 
sporadic  breezes,  as  it  turned,  the  ward  was  trying 
to  sleep. 

Johnny  Rosenfeld  was  not  asleep.  An  incredible 
thing  had  happened  to  him.  A  fortune  lay  under 
his  pillow.  He  was  sure  it  was  there,  for  ever  since  it 
came  his  hot  hand  had  clutched  it. 

He  was  quite  sure  that  somehow  or  other  K.  had 
had  a  hand  in  it.  When  he  disclaimed  it,  the  boy 
was  bewildered. 

"It'll  buy  the  old  lady  what  she  wants  for  the 
house,  anyhow,"  he  said.  "But  I  hope  nobody's 
took  up  a  collection  for  me.  I  don't  want  no  char- 
fry," 

"Maybe  Mr.  Howe  sent  it." 

"You  can  bet  your  last  match  he  did  n't." 

In  some  unknown  way  the  news  had  reached  the 
ward  that  Johnny's  friend,  Mr.  Le  Moyne,  was  a 
great  surgeon.  Johnny  had  rejected  it  scornfully. 

"He  works  in  the  gas  office,"  he  said.  "  I  've  seen 
him  there.  If  he's  a  surgeon,  what's  he  doing  in  the 
gas  office.  If  he's  a  surgeon,  what's  he  doing  teach* 
ing  me  raffia-work?  Why  is  n't  he  on  his  job?" 


But  the  story  had  seized  on  his  imagination. 

"Say,  Mr.  Le  Moyne." 

"Yes,  Jack." 

He  called  him  "Jack."  The  boy  liked  it.  It  sa- 
vored of  man  to  man.  After  all,  he  was  a  man,  or 
almost.  Had  n't  he  driven  a  car?  Did  n't  he  have 
a  state  license? 

"They've  got  a  queer  story  about  you  here  in  the 
ward." 

"Not  scandal,  I  trust,  Jack!" 

"They  say  that  you're  a  surgeon;  that  you  oper- 
ated on  Dr.  Wilson  and  saved  his  life.  They  say 
that  you  're  the  king  pin  where  you  came  from."  He 
eyed  K.  wistfully.  "I  know  it's  a  damn  lie,  but  if 
it's  true — " 

"I  used  to  be  a  surgeon.  As  a  matter  of  fact  J 
operated  on  Dr.  Wilson  to-day.  I  —  I  am  rather 
apologetic,  Jack,  because  I  did  n't  explain  to  you 
sooner.  For  —  various  reasons  —  I  gave  up  that  — 
that  line  of  business.  To-day  they  rather  forced  my 
hand." 

"  Don't  you  think  you  could  do  something  for  me, 
•sir?" 

When  K.  did  not  reply  at  once,  he  launched  into 
an  explanation. 

"  I  Ve  been  lying  here  a  good  while.  I  did  n't  say 
much  because  I  knew  I  'd  have  to  take  a  chance. 
Either  I  'd  pull  through  or  I  would  n't,  and  the  odds 
were.  —  well,  I  didn't  say  much.  The  old  lady's 
had  a  lot  of  trouble.  But  now,  with  this  under  my 

365 


pillow  for  her,  I  Ve  got  a  right  to  ask.   I  '11  take  a 
chance,  if  you  will." 

"It's  only  a  chance,  Jack." 

"  I  know  that.  But  lie  here  and  watch  these  soaks 
off  the  street.  Old,  a  lot  of  them,  and  gettin'  well 
to  go  out  and  starve,  and —  My  God!  Mr.  Le 
Moyne,  they  can  walk,  and  I  can't." 

K.  drew  a  long  breath.  He  had  started,  and  now 
he  must  go  on.  Faith  in  himself  or  no  faith,  he  must 
go  on.  Life,  that  had  loosed  its  hold  on  him  for  a 
time,  had  found  him  again. 

"  I  '11  go  over  you  carefully  to-morrow,  Jack.  I  '11 
tell  you  your  chances  honestly." 

"I  have  a  thousand  dollars.  Whatever  you 
charge  — " 

"  I  '11  take  it  out  of  my  board  bill  in  the  new  house ! " 

At  four  o'clock  that  morning  K.  got  back  from 
seeing  Joe  off.  The  trip  had  been  without  accident. 

Over  Sidney's  letter  Joe  had  shed  a  shamefaced 
tear  or  two.  And  during  the  night  ride,  with  K. 
pushing  the  car  to  the  utmost,  he  had  felt  that  the 
boy,  in  keeping  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  had  kept  it 
on  the  letter.  When  the  road  was  smooth  and 
stretched  ahead,  a  gray-white  line  into  the  night; 
he  tried  to  talk  a  little  courage  into  the  boy's  sick 
heart. 

"You'll  see  new  people,  new  life,"  he  said.  "In 
a  month  from  now  you'll  wonder  why  you  ever 
hung  around  the  Street.  1  have  a  feeling  that  you  're 
going  to  make  good  down  there." 


And  once,  when  the  time  for  parting  was  very 
near,  — 

"  No  matter  what  happens,  keep  on  believing  in 
yourself.  I  lost  my  faith  in  myself  once.  It  was 
pretty  close  to  hell. 

Joe's  response  showed  his  entire  self-engrossment. 

"If  he  dies,  I'm  a  murderer." 

"He's  not  going  to  die,"  said  K.  stoutly. 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  left  the  car  at 
the  garage  and  walked  around  to  the  little  house. 
He  had  had  no  sleep  for  forty-five  hours;  his  eyes 
were  sunken  in  his  head;  the  skin  over  his  temples 
looked  drawn  and  white.  His  clothes  were  wrinkled ; 
the  soft  hat  he  habitually  wore  was  white  with  the 
dust  of  the  road. 

As  he  opened  the  hall  door,  Christine  stirred  in 
the  room  beyond.  She  came  out  fully  dressed. 

"K.,  are  you  sick?" 

"Rather  tired.  Why  in  the  world  are  n't  you  in 
bed?" 

"Palmer  has  just  come  home  in  a  terrible  rage 
He  says  he's  been  robbed  of  a  thousand  dollars." 

"Where?" 

Christine  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  He  does  n't  know,  or  says  he  does  n't.  I  'm  glad 
of  it.  He  seems  thoroughly  frightened.  It  may  be  a 
lesson." 

In  the  dim  hall  light  he  realized  that  her  face  was 
strained  and  set.  She  looked  on  the  verge  of  hys- 
teria. 

367 


" Poor  little  woman,"  he  said.  " I'm  sorry,  Chris- 
tine." 

The  tender  words  broke  down  the  last  barrier  of 
her  self-control. 

"Oh,  K.!  Take  me  away.  Take  me  away!  1 
can't  stand  it  any  longer." 

She  held  her  arms  out  to  him,  and  because  he  was 
very  tired  and  lonely,  and  because  more  than  any- 
thing else  in  the  world  just  then  he  needed  a  wom- 
an's arms,  he  drew  her  to  him  and  held  her  close, 
his  cheek  to  her  hair. 

"Poor  girl!"  he  said.  "Poor  Christine!  Surely 
there  must  be  some  happiness  for  us  somewhere." 

But  the  next  moment  he  let  her  go  and',  stepped 
back. 

"I'm  sorry."  Characteristically  he  took  the 
blame.  "  I  should  n't  have  done  that  —  You  know 
how  it  is  with  me." 

"Will  it  always  be  Sidney?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  always  be  Sidney." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

JOHNNY  ROSENFELD  was  dead.  All  of  K.'s  skill  had 
not  sufficed  to  save  him.  The  operation  had  been  a 
marvel,  but  the  boy's  long-sapped  strength  failed  at 
the  last. 

K.,  set  of  face,  stayed  with  him  to  the  end.  The 
boy  did  not  know  he  was  going.  He  roused  from  the 
coma  and  smiled  up  at  Le  Moyne. 

"  I  've  got  a  hunch  that  I  can  move  my  right  foot," 
he  said.  "Look  and  see." 

K.  lifted  the  light  covering. 

"You're  right,  old  man.    It's  moving." 

"Brake  foot,  clutch  foot,"  said  Johnny,  and 
closed  his  eyes  again. 

K.  had  forbidden  the  white  screens,  that  outward 
symbol  of  death.  Time  enough  for  them  later.  So 
the  ward  had  no  suspicion,  nor  had  the  boy. 

The  ward  passed  in  review.  It  was  Sunday,  and 
from  the  chapel  far  below  came  the  faint  singing  of 
a  hymn.  When  Johnny  spoke  again  he  did  not  open 
his  eyes. 

"You're  some  operator,  Mr.  Le  Moyne.  I'll  put 
in  a  word  for  you  whenever  I  get  a  chance." 

"Yes,  put  in  a  word  for  me,"  said  K.  hus- 
kily. 

He  felt  that  Johnny  would  be  a  good  mediator  — 
that  whatever  he,  K.,  had  done  of  omission  or  com- 

369 


mission,  Johnny's  voice  before  the  Tribunal  would 
count. 

The  lame  young  violin-player  came  into  the  ward. 
She  had  cherished  a  secret  and  romantic  affection 
for  Max  Wilson,  and  now  he  was  in  the  hospital 
and  ill.  So  she  wore  the  sacrificial  air  of  a  young  nun 
and  played  "The  Holy  City." 

Johnny  was  close  on  the  edre  of  his  long  sleep  by 
that  time,  and  very  comfortable. 

1 '  Tell  her  nix  on  the  sob  stuff, ' '  he  complained .  ' '  Ask 
her  to  play  'I'm  twenty-one  and  she's  eighteen." 

She  was  rather  outraged,  but  on  K.'s  quick  ex- 
planation she  changed  to  the  staccato  air. 

"Ask  her  if  she'll  come  a  little  nearer;  I  can't  hear 
her." 

So  she  moved  to  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  to  the  gay 
little  tune  Johnny  began  his  long  sleep.  But  first 
he  asked  K.  a  question:  — 

"Are  you  sure  I  'm  going  to  walk,  Mr.  Le  Moyne?  " 

"I  give  you  my  solemn  word,"  said  K.  huskily, 
"  that  you  are  going  to  be  better  than  you  have  ever 
been  in  your  life." 

It  was  K.  who,  seeing  he  would  no  longer  notice, 
ordered  the  screens  to  be  set  around  the  bed,  K. 
who  drew  the  coverings  smooth  and  folded  the  boy's 
hands  over  his  breast. 

The  violin-player  stood  by  uncertainly. 

"How  very  young  he  is!  Was  it  an  accident?" 

"It  was  the  result  of  a  man's  damnable  folly," 
said  K.  grimly.  "Somebody  always  pays." 


K 


And  so  Johnny  Rosenfeld  paid. 

The  immediate  result  of  his  death  was  that  K.f 
who  had  gained  some  of  his  faith  in  himself  on  seeing 
Wilson  on  the  way  to  recovery,  was  beset  by  his  old 
doubts.  What  right  had  he  to  arrogate  to  himself 
again  powers  of  life  and  death?  Over  and  over  he 
told  himself  that  there  had  been  no  carelessness  here, 
that  the  boy  would  have  died  ultimately,  that  he 
had  taken  the  only  chance,  that  the  boy  himself  had 
known  the  risk  and  begged  for  it. 

The  old  doubts  came  back. 

And  now  came  a  question  that  demanded  imme- 
diate answer.  Wilson  would  be  out  of  commission 
for  several  months,  probably.  He  was  gaining,  but 
slowly.  And  he  wanted  K.  to  take  over  his  work. 

"Why  not?"  he  demanded,  half  irritably.  "The 
secret  is  out.  Everybody  knows  who  you  are.  You  're 
not  thinking  about  going  back  to  that  ridiculous 
gas  office,  are  you?" 

"  I  had  some  thought  of  going  to  Cuba." 

"  I  'm  damned  if  I  understand  you.  You've  done 
a  marvelous  thing;  I  lie  here  and  listen  to  the  staff 
singing  your  praises  until  I'm  sick  of  your  name! 
And  now,  because  a  boy  who  would  n't  have  lived 
anyhow  — " 

"That's  not  it,"  K.  put  in  hastily.  "I  know  all 
that.  I  guess  I  could  do  it  and  get  away  with  it  as 
well  as  the  average.  All  that  deters  me  —  I  Ve  never 
told  you,  have  I,  why  I  gave  up  before?" 

Wilson  was  propped  up  in  his  bed.    K.  was  walk- 


ir/g  restlessly  about  the  room,  as  was  his    habit 
when  troubled. 

"I've  heard  the  gossip;  that's  all." 

"When  you  recognized  me  that  night  on  the  bal- 
cony, I  told  you  I'd  lost  my  faith  in  myself,  and 
you  s;ud  the  whole  affair  had  been  gone  over  at  the 
State  Society.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Society  knew 
of  only  two  cases.  There  had  been  three." 

"Even  at  that— " 

"You  know  what  I  always  felt  about  the  profes- 
sion, Max.  We  went  into  that  more  than  once  in 
Berlin.  Either  one's  best  or  nothing.  I  had  done 
pretty  well.  When  I  left  Lorch  and  built  my  own 
hospital,  I  had  n't  a  doubt  of  myself.  And  because 
I  was  getting  results  I  got  a  lot  of  advertising.  Men 
began  coming  to  the  clinics.  I  found  I  was^naking 
enough  out  of  the  patients  who  could  pay  to  add  a 
few  free  wards.  I  want  to  tell  you  now,  Wilson,  that 
the  opening  of  those  free  wards  was  the  greatest 
self-indulgence  I  ever  permitted  myself.  I  'd  seen  so 
much  careless  attention  given  the  poor  —  well,  never 
mind  that.  It  was  almost  three  years  ago  that  things 
began  to  go  wrong.  I  lost  a  big  case." 

"I  know.  All  this  does  n't  influence  me,  Ed- 
wardes." 

"Wait  a  moment.  We  had  a  system  in  the  oper- 
ating-room as  perfect  as  I  could  devise  it.  I  never 
finished  an  operation  without  having  my  first  as- 
sistant verify  the  clip  and  sponge  count.  But  that 
first  case  died  because  a  sponge  had  been  left  in  the 

372 


operating  field.  You  know  how  those  things  go;  you 
can't  always  see  them,  and  one  goes  by  the  count, 
after  reasonable  caution.  Then  I  almost  lost  an- 
other case  in  the  same  way  —  a  free  case. 

"As  well  as  I  could  tell,  the  precautions  had  not 
been  relaxed.  I  was  doing  from  four  to  six  cases  a 
day.  After  the  second  one  I  almost  went  crazy.  I 
made  up  my  mind,  if  there  was  ever  another,  I'd 
give  up  and  go  away." 

"There  was  another?" 

"Not  for  several  months.  When  the  last  case 
died,  a  free  rase  again,  I  performed  my  own  autopsy , 
I  allowed  only  my  first  assistant  in  the  room.  He 
was  almost  as  frenzied  as  I  was.  It  was  the  same 
thing  again.  When  I  told  him  I  was  going  away,  he 
offered  to  take  the  blame  himself,  to  say  he  had 
closed  the  incision.  He  tried  to  make  me  think  he 
was  responsible.  I  knew  —  better." 

"It's  incredible." 

"Exactly;  but  it's  true.  The  last  patient  was  a 
laborer.  He  left  a  family.  I've  sent  them  money 
from  time  to  time.  I  used  to  sit  and  think  about 
the  children  he  left,  and  what  would  become  of  them 
The  ironic  part  of  it  was  that,  for  all  that  had  har> 
pened,  I  was  busier  all  the  time.  Men  were  sending 
me  cases  from  all  over  the  country.  It  was  either 
stay  and  keep  on  working,  with  that  chance,  or  — 
quit.  I  quit." 

"But  if  you  had  stayed,  and  taken  extra  pre> 
cautions  — " 

373 


K 


taken  every  precaution  we  knew." 

Neither  of  the  men  spoke  for  a  time.  K.  stood,  his 
tall  figure  outlined  against  the  window.  Far  off, 
in  the  children's  ward,  children  were  laughing;  from 
near  by  a  very  young  baby  wailed  a  thin  cry  of  pro- 
test against  life;  a  bell  rang  constantly.  K.'s  mind 
was  busy  with  the  past  —  with  the  day  he  decided 
to  give  up  and  go  away,  with  the  months  of  wander- 
ing and  homelessness,  with  the  night  he  had  come 
up  the  Street  and  had  seen  Sidney  on  the  doorstep 
of  the  little  house. 

"That's  the  worst,  is  it?"  Max  Wilson  demanded 
at  last. 

"That's  enough." 

"It's  extremely  significant.  You  had  an  enemy 
somewhere  —  on  your  staff,  probably.  This  profes- 
sion of  ours  is  a  big  one,  but  you  know  its  jealousies. 
Let  a  man  get  his  shoulders  above  the  crowd,  and 
the  pack  is  after  him."  He  laughed  a  little.  "  Mixed 
figure,  but  you  know  what  I  mean." 

K.  shook  his  head.  He  had  had  that  gift  of  the 
big  man  everywhere,  in  every  profession,  of  securing 
the  loyalty  of  his  followers.  He  would  have  trusted 
2very  one  of  them  with  his  life. 

"You're  going  to  do  it,  of  course." 

"Take  up  your  work?" 

"Yes." 

He  stirred  restlessly.  To  stay  on,  to  be  near  Sid- 
ney, perhaps  to  stand  by  as  Wilson's  best  man  when 
she  was  married  —  it  turned  him  cold.  But  he  did 

374 


not  give  a  decided  negative.  The  sick  man  was  flushed 
and  growing  fretful ;  it  would  not  do  to  irritate  him. 

"  Give  me  another  day  on  it,"  he  said  at  last.  And 
?o  the  matter  stood. 

Max's  injury  had  been  productive  of  good,  in  one 
way.  It  had  brought  the  two  brothers  closer  to- 
gether. In  the  mornings  Max  was  restless  until 
Dr.  Ed  arrived.  When  he  came,  he  brought  books 
in  the  shabby  bag  —  his  beloved  Burns,  although 
he  needed  no  book  for  that,  the  "  Pickwick  Papers," 
Renan's  "Lives  of  the  Disciples."  Very  often 
Max  would  doze  off;  but  at  the  cessation  of  Dr. 
Ed's  sonorous  voice  the  sick  man  would  stir  fret- 
fully and  demand  more.  But  because  he  listened  to 
everything  without  discrimination,  the  older  man 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  the  companion- 
ship that  counted.  It  pleased  him  vastly.  It  re- 
minded him  of  Max's  boyhood,  when  he  had  read 
to  Max  at  night.  For  once  in  the  last  dozen  years, 
he  needed  him. 

"  Go  on,  Ed.  What  in  blazes  makes  you  stop  every 
five  minutes?"  Max  protested,  one  day. 

Dr.  Ed,  who  had  only  stopped  to  bite  off  the  end 
of  a  stogie  to  hold  in  his  cheek,  picked  up  his  book  in 
a  hurry,  and  eyed  the  invalid  over  it. 

"Stop  bullying.  I  '11  read  when  I  'm  ready.  Have 
^ou  any  idea  what  I'm  reading?" 

"Of  course." 

"Well,  I  haven't.  For  ten  minutes  I've  been 
reading  across  both  pages!" 


K 


Max  laughed,  and  suddenly  put  out  his  hand.  De- 
monstrations of  affection  were  so  rare  with  him  that 
for  a  moment  Dr.  Ed  was  puzzled.  Then,  rather 
sheepishly,  he  took  it. 

"When  I  get  out,"  Max  said,  "we'll  have  to  go 
out  to  the  White  Springs  again  and  have  supper." 

That  was  all;  but  Ed  understood. 

Morning  and  evening,  Sidney  went  to  Max's 
room.  In  the  morning  she  only  smiled  at  him  from 
the  doorway.  In  the  evening  she  went  to  him  after 
prayers.  She  was  allowed  an  hour  with  him  then. 

The  shooting  had  been  a  closed  book  between 
them.  At  first,  when  he  began  to  recover,  he  tried 
to  talk  to  her  about  it.  But  she  refused  to  listen. 
She  was  very  gentle  with  him,  but  very  firm. 

"I  know  how  it  happened,  Max,"  she  said — • 
"about  Joe's  mistake  and  all  that.  The  rest  can 
wait  until  you  are  much  better." 

If  there  had  been  any  change  in  her  manner  to  him, 
he  would  not  have  submitted  so  easily,  probably. 
But  she  was  as  tender  as  ever,  unfailingly  patient, 
prompt  to  come  to  him  and  slow  to  leave.  After  a 
time  he  began  to  dread  reopening  the  subject.  She 
seemed  so  effectually  to  have  closed  it.  Carlotta 
was  gone.  And,  after  all,  what  good  could  he  do  his 
cause  by  pleading  it?  The  fact  was  there,  and  Sidney 
knew  it. 

On  the  day  when  K.  had  told  Max  his  reason  for 
giving  up  his  work,  Max  was  allowed  out  of  bed  for 
the  first  time.  It  was  a  great  day.  A  box  of  red  roses 

.376 


came  that  day  from  the  girl  who  had  refused  him 
a  year  or  more  ago.  He  viewed  them  with  a  care- 
lessness that  was  half  assumed. 

The  news  had  traveled  to  the  Street  that  he  was 
to  get  up  that  day.  Early  that  morning  the  door- 
keeper had  opened  the  door  to  a  gentleman  who  did 
not  speak,  but  who  handed  in  a  bunch  of  early 
chrysanthemums  and  proceeded  to  write,  on  a  pad 
he  drew  from  his  pocket:  — 

"From  Mrs.  McKee's  family  and  guests,  with  their 
congratulations  on  your  recovery,  and  their  hope 
that  they  will  see  you  again  soon.  If  their  ends  are 
clipped  every  day  and  they  are  placed  in  ammonia 
water,  they  will  last  indefinitely." 

Sidney  spent  her  hour  with  Max  that  evening  as 
usual.  His  big  chair  had  been  drawn  close  to  a  win- 
dow, and  she  found  him  there,  looking  out.  She 
kissed  him.  But  this  time,  instead  of  letting  her  draw- 
away,  he  put  out  his  arms  and  caught  her  to  him. 

"Are  you  glad?" 

"Very  glad,  indeed,"  she  said  soberly. 

"Then  smile  at  me.  You  don't  smile  any  more. 
You  ought  to  smile;  your  mouth  — " 

"I  am  almost  always  tired;  that's  all,  Max." 

She  eyed  him  bravely. 

"Are  n't  you  going  to  let  me  make  love  to  you  at 
all?  You  get  away  beyond  my  reach." 

"  I  was  looking  for  the  paper  to  read  to  you." 

A  sudden  suspicion  flamed  in  his  eyes. 

"Sidney." 

>77 


"Yes,  dear." 

"  You  don't  like  me  to  touch  you  any  more.  Come 
here  where  I  can  see  you." 

The  fear  of  agitating  him  brought  her  quickly. 
For  a  moment  he  was  appeased. 

' '  That 's  more  like  it.  How  lovely  you  are,  Sidney ! " 
He  lifted  first  one  hand  and  then  the  other  to  his 
lips.  "Are  you  ever  going  to  forgive  me?" 

"  If  you  mean  about  Carlotta,  I  forgave  that  long 
ago." 

He  was  almost  boyishly  relieved.  What  a  wonder 
she  was!  So  lovely,  and  so  sane.  Many  a  woman 
would  have  held  that  over  him  for  years  —  not  that 
he  had  done  anything  really  wrong  on  that  night- 
mare excursion.  But  so  many  women  are  exigent 
about  promises. 

"When  are  you  going  to  marry  me?" 

"We  need  n't  discuss  that  to-night,  Max." 

"  I  want  you  so  very  much.  I  don't  want  to  wait, 
dear.  Let  me  tell  Ed  that  you  will  marry  me  soon 
Then,  when  I  go  away,  I'll  take  you  with  me." 

"Can't  we  talk  things  over  when  you  are 
stronger?" 

Her  tone  caught  his  attention,  and  turned  him  a 
little  white.  He  faced  her  to  the  window,  so  that  the 
light  fell  full  on  her. 

"What  things?  What  do  you  mean?" 
He  had  forced  her  hand.  She  had  meant  to  wait; 
but,  with  his  keen  eyes  on  her,  she  could  not  dis- 
semble. 

378 


"  I  am  going  to  make  you  very  unhappy  for  i  little 
while." 

"Well?" 

"I've  had  a  lot  of  time  to  think.  If  you  had 
really  wanted  me,  Max — " 

"  My  God,  of  course  I  want  you ! " 

"  It  is  n't  that  I  am  angry.  I  am  not  even  jealous. 
I  was  at  first.  It  is  n't  that.  It's  hard  to  make  you* 
understand.  I  think  you  care  for  me  — " 

"I  love  you!  I  swear  I  never  loved  any  other 
woman  as  I  love  you." 

Suddenly  he  remembered  that  he  had  also  sworn  to 
put  Carlotta  out  of  his  life.  He  knew  that  Sidney 
remembered,  too;  but  she  gave  no  sign. 

"Perhaps  that's  true.  You  might  go  on  caring 
for  mo.  Sometimes  I  think  you  would.  But  there- 
would  always  be  other  women,  Max.  You're  like 
that.  Perhaps  you  can't  help  it." 

"If  you  loved  me  you  could  do  anything  with 
me."  He  was  half  sullen. 

By  the  way  her  color  leaped,  he  knew  he  had' 
struck  fire.  All  his  conjectures  as  to  how  Sidney  would 
*:ake  the  knowledge  of  his  entanglement  with  Car- 
lotta had  been  founded  on  one  major  premise  —  that 
she  loved  him.  The  mere  suspicion  made  him  gasp. 

"But,  good  Heavens,  Sidney,  you  do  care  for  me, 
don't  you?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't,  Max;  not  enough." 

She  tried  to  explain,  rather  pitifully.  After  one- 
look  at  his  face,  she  spoke  to  the  window. 

379 


(K 


"I'm  so  wretched  about  it.  I  thought  I  cared. 
To  me  you  were  the  best  and  greatest  man  that  ever 
lived.  I  —  when  I  said  my  prayers,  I  -  -  But  that 
does  n't  matter.  You  were  a  sort  of  god  to  me. 
When  the  Lamb  —  that's  one  of  the  internes,  you 
know  —  nicknamed  you  the  'Little  Tin  God,'  I  was 
angry.  You  could  never  be  anything  little  to  me, 
or  do  anything  that  was  n't  big.  Do  you  see?" 

He  groaned  under  his  breath. 

"No  man  could  live  up  to  that,  Sidney." 

"  No.  I  see  that  now.  But  that's  the  way  I  cared. 
Now  I  know  that  I  did  n't  care  for  you,  really,  at  all. 
I  built  up  an  idol  and  worshiped  it.  I  always  saw  you 
through  a  sort  of  haze.  You  were  operating,  with 
everybody  standing  by,  saying  how  wonderful  it  was. 
Or  you  were  coming  to  the  wards,  and  everything 
was  excitement,  getting  ready  for  you.  I  blame 
myself  terribly.  But  you  see,  don't  you?  It  is  n't 
that  I  think  you  are  wicked.  It's  just  that  I 
never  loved  the  real  you,  because  I  never  knew 
you." 

When  he  remained  silent,  she  made  an  attempt 
to  justify  herself. 

"I'd  known  very  few  men,"  she  said.  "I  came 
into  the  hospital,  and  for  a  time  life  seemed  very 
terrible.  There  were  wickednesses  I  had  never 
heard  of,  and  somebody  always  paying  for  them. 
I  was  always  asking,  Why?  Why?  Then  you  would 
come  in,  and  a  lot  of  them  you  cured  and  sent  out. 
You  gave  them  their  chance,  don't  you  see?  Until 

.380 


I  knew  about  Carlotta,  you  always  meant  that  to 
me.  You  were  like  K.  —  always  helping." 

The  room  was  very  silent.  In  the  nurses'  parlor,  a 
few  feet  down  the  corridor,  the  nurses  were  at 
prayers. 

"The  Lord  is  my  shepherd;  I  shall  not  want,': 
read  the  Head,  her  voice  calm  with  the  quiet  of  twi- 
light and  the  end  of  the  day. 

"He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures:  he 
leadeth  me  beside  the  still  waters." 

The  nurses  read  the  response  a  little  slowly,  as 
if  they,  too,  were  weary:  — 

"Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death  — " 

The  man  in  the  chair  stirred.  He  had  come 
through  the  valley  of  the  shadow,  and  for  what? 
He  was  very  bitter.  He  said  to  himself  savagely  that 
they  would  better  have  let  him  die. 

"You  say  you  never  loved  me  because  you  never 
knew  me.  I  'm  not  a  rotter,  Sidney.  Is  n't  it  possible 
that  the  man  you  cared  about,  who  —  who  did  his 
best  by  people  and  all  that  —  is  the  real  me?" 

She  gazed  at  him  thoughtfully.  He  missed  some- 
thing out  of  her  eyes,  the  sort  of  luminous,  wistful 
look  with  which  she  had  been  wont  to  survey  his 
greatness.  Measured  by  this  new  glance,  so  clear, 
so  appraising,  he  shrank  back  into  his  chair. 

"The  man  who  did  his  best  is  quite  real.  You 
have  always  done  your  best  in  your  work;  you  al- 
ways will.  But  the  other  is  a  part  of  you  too* 


Even  if  I  cared,  I  would  not  dare  to  run  the3 
risk." 

Under  the  window  rang  the  sharp  gong  of  a  city 
patrol-wagon.  It  rumbled  through  the  gates  back 
to  the  courtyard,  where  its  continued  clamor  sum- 
tnoned  white-coated  orderlies. 

An  operating-room  case,  probably.  Sidney,  chin 
lifted,  listened  carefully.  If  it  was  a  case  for  her, 
-the  elevator  would  go  up  to  the  operating-room. 
With  a  renewed  sense  of  loss,  Max  saw  that  already 
she  had  put  him  out  of  her  mind.  The  call  to  service 
was  to  her  a  call  to  battle.  Her  sensitive  nostrils 
•quivered;  her  young  figure  stood  erect,  alert. 

"It  has  gone  up!" 

She  took  a  step  toward  the  door,  hesitated,  came 
back,  and  put  a  light  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"I'm  sorry,  dear  Max." 

She  had  kissed  him  lightly  on  the  cheek  before 
he  knew  what  she  intended  to  do.  So  passionless 
was  the  little  caress  that,  perhaps  more  than  any- 
thing else,  it  typified  the  change  in  their  relation. 

When  the  door  closed  behind  her,  he  saw  that  she 
had  left  her  ring  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  He  picked  it 
up.  It  was  still  warm  from  her  finger.  He  held  it  to 
his  lips  with  a  quick  gesture.  In  all  his  successful 
young  life  he  had  never  before  felt  the  bitterness  of 
failure.  The  very  warmth  of  the  little  ring  hurt. 

Why  had  n't  they  let  him  die?  He  did  n't  want  to 
live  —  he  would  n't  live.  Nobody  cared  for  him! 
Jie  would  — 

382 


His  eyes,  lifted  from  the  ring,  fell  on  the  red  glow 
of  the  roses  that  had  come  that  morning.  Even  in 
the  half  light,  they  glowed  with  fiery  color. 

The  ring  was  in  his  right  hand.  With  the  left  he 
settled  his  collar  and  soft  silk  tie. 

K.  saw  Carlotta  that  evening  for  the  last  time. 
Katie  brought  word  to  him,  where  he  was  helping- 
Harriet  close  her  trunk,  —  she  was  on  her  way  to 
Europe  for  the  fall  styles,  —  that  he  was  wanted 
in  the  lower  hall. 

"A  lady!"  she  said,  closing  the  door  behind  her 
by  way  of  caution.  "And  a  good  thing  for  her  she's 
not  from  the  alley.  The  way  those  people  beg  off 
you  is  a  sin  and  a  shame,  and  it 's  not  at  home  you  're 
going  to  be  to  them  from  new  on." 

So  K.  had  put  on  his  coat  and,  without  so  much  as 
a  glance  in  Harriet's  mirror,  had  gone  down  the. 
stairs.  Carlotta  was  in  the  lower  hall.  She  stood 
under  the  chandelier,  and  he  saw  at  once  the  rav- 
ages that  trouble  had  made  in  her.  She  was  a  dead 
white,  and  she  looked  ten  years  older  than  her 
age. 

"I  came,  you  see,  Dr.  Edwardes." 

Now  and  then,  when  some  one  came  to  him  for 
help,  which  was  generally  money,  he  used  Christine's 
parlor,  if  she  happened  to  be  out.  So  now,  finding  the 
door  ajar,  and  the  room  dark,  he  went  in  and  turned 
on  the  light. 

''Come  in  here;  we  can  talk  better." 
383 


She  did  not  sit  down  at  first;  but,  observing  that 
her  standing  kept  him  on  his  feet,  she  sat  finally. 
Evidently  she  found  it  hard  to  speak. 

"You  were  to  come,"  K.  encouraged  her,  "to  see 
if  we  could  n't  plan  something  for  you.  Now,  I 
think  I've  got  it." 

"If  it's  another  hospital  —  and  I  don't  want  to 
stay  here,  in  the  city." 

"You  like  surgical  work,  don't  you?"' 

"I  don't  care  for  anything  else." 

"Before  we  settle  this,  I'd  better  tell  you  what 
I  'm  thinking  of.  You  know,  of  course,  that  I  closed 
my  hospital.  I  —  a  series  of  things  happened,  and  I 
cecided  I  was  in  the  wrong  business.  That  would  n't 
be  important,  except  for  what  it  leads  to.  They  are 
trying  to  persuade  me  to  go  back,  and  —  I'm  trying 
to  persuade  myself  that  I'm  fit  to  go  back.  You 
see,"  —  his  tone  was  determinedly  cheerful,  —  "my 
faith  in  myself  has  been  pretty  nearly  gone.  When 
one  loses  that,  there  is  n't  much  left." 

"You  had  been  very  successful."  She  did  not 
look  up. 

"Well,  I  had  and  I  hadn't.  I'm  not  going  to 
worry  you  about  that.  My  offer  is  this:  We'll  just 
try  to  forget  about  —  about  Schwitter's  and  all  the 
rest,  and  if  I  go  back  I  '11  take  you  on  in  the  oper- 
ating-room." 

"You  sent  me  away  once!" 

"Well,  I  can  ask  you  to  come  back,  can't  I?"  He 
smiled  at  her  encouragingly. 


"Are  you  sure  you  understand  about  Max  Wilson 
and  myself?" 

"  I  understand.' 

"  Don't  you  think  you  are  taking  a  risk?" 

"Every  one  makes  mistakes  now  and  then,  and 
loving  women  have  made  mistakes  since  the  world 
began.  Most  people  live  in  glass  houses,  Miss  Harri- 
son. And  don't  make  any  mistake  about  this:  people 
can  always  come  back.  No  depth  is  too  low.  All  they 
need  is  the  will  power." 

He  smiled  down  at  her.  She  had  come  armed  with 
confession.  But  the  offer  he  made  was  too  alluring. 
It  meant  reinstatement,  another  chance,  when  she 
had  thought  everything  was  over.  After  all,  why 
should  she  damn  herself?  She  would  go  back.  She 
would  work  her  finger-ends  off  for  him.  She  would 
make  it  up  to  him  in  other  ways.  But  she  could  not 
tell  him  and  lose  everything. 

"Come,"  he  said.  "Shall  we  go  back  and  start 
over  again?" 

He  held  out  his  hand. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

LATE  September  had  come,  with  the  Street,  after 
its  summer  indolence  taking  up  the  burden  of  the 
year.  At  eight-thirty  and  at  one  the  school  bell  called 
the  children.  Little  girls  in  pig-tails,  carrying  freshly 
sharpened  pencils,  went  primly  toward  the  school, 
gathering,  comet  fashion,  a  tail  of  unwilling  brothers 
as  they  went. 

An  occasional  football  hurtled  through  the  air. 
Le  Moyne  had  promised  the  baseball  club  a  football 
outfit,  rumor  said,  but  would  not  coach  them  him- 
self this  year.  A  story  was  going  about  that  Mr.  Le 
Moyne  intended  to  go  away. 

The  Street  had  been  furiously  busy  for  a  month. 
The  cobblestones  had  gone,  and  from  curb  to  curb 
stretched  smooth  asphalt.  The  fascination  of  writ- 
ing on  it  with  chalk  still  obsessed  the  children. 
Every  few  yards  was  a  hop-scotch  diagram.  Gener- 
ally speaking,  too,  the  Street  had  put  up  new  cur- 
tains, and  even,  here  and  there,  had  added  a  coat  of 
paint. 

To  this  general  excitement  the  strange  case  of  Mr. 
Le  Moyne  had  added  its  quota.  One  day  he  was  in 
the  gas  office,  making  out  statements  that  were  ab- 
solutely ridiculous.  (What  with  no  baking  all  last 
month,  and  every  Sunday  spent  in  the  country,  no- 
body could  have  used  that  amount  of  gas.  They 

.  386 


could  come  and  take  their  old  meter  out !)  And  the 
next  there  was  the  news  that  Mr.  Le  Moyne  had 
been  only  taking  a  holiday  in  the  gas  office,  —  pay- 
ing off  old  scores,  the  barytone  at  Mrs.  McKee's 
hazarded !  —  and  that  he  was  really  a  very  great 
surgeon  and  had  saved  Dr.  Max  Wilson. 

The  Street,  which  was  busy  at  the  time  deciding 
whether  to  leave  the  old  sidewalks  or  to  put  down 
cement  ones,  had  one  evening  of  mad  excitement 
over  the  matter,  —  of  K.,  not  the  sidewalks,  — and 
then  had  accepted  the  new  situation. 

But  over  the  news  of  K.'s  approaching  departure 
it  mourned.  What  was  the  matter  with  things,  any- 
how? Here  was  Christine's  marriage,  which  had 
promised  so  well,  —  awnings  and  palms  and  every- 
thing, —  turning  out  badly.  True,  Palmer  Howe 
was  doing  better,  but  he  would  break  out  again. 
And  Johnny  Rosenfeld  was  dead,  so  that  his  mother 
came  on  washing-days,  and  brought  no  cheery 
gossip,  but  bent  over  her  tubs  dry-eyed  and  silent 
—  even  the  approaching  move  to  a  larger  house 
failed  to  thrill  her.  There  was  Tillie,  too.  But  one 
did  not  speak  of  her.  She  was  married  now,  of 
course;  but  the  Street  did  not  tolerate  such  a  re- 
versal of  the  usual  processes  as  Tillie  had  in- 
dulged in.  It  censured  Mrs.  McKee  severely  for 
having  been,  so  to  speak,  an  accessory  after  the 
fact. 

The  Street  made  a  resolve  to  keep  K.,  if  possible. 
If  he  had  shown  any  "high  and  mightiness,"  as  they 

387 


called  it,  since  the  change  in  his  estate,  it  would  have 
let  him  go  without  protest-  But  when  a  man  is  the 
real  thing,  —  so  that  the  newspapers  give  a  column 
to  his  having  been  in  the  city  almost  two  years,  — 
and  still  goes  about  in  the  same  shabby  clothes,  with 
the  same  friendly  greeting  for  every  one,  it  demon- 
strates clearly,  as  the  barytone  put  it,  that  "he's  got 
no  swelled  head  on  him;  that's  sure." 

"Anybody  can  see  by  the  way  he  drives  that  ma- 
chine of  Wilson's  that  he 's  been  used  to  a  car  — 
likely  a  foreign  one.  All  the  swells  have  foreign  cars." 
Still  the  barytone,  who  was  almost  as  fond  of  con- 
versation as  of  what  he  termed  "vocal."  "And  an- 
other thing.  Do  you  notice  the  way  he  takes  Dr.  Ed 
around?  Has  him  at  every  consultation.  The  old 
boy's  tickled  to  death." 

A  little  later,  K.,  coming  up  the  Street  as  he  had 
that  first  day,  heard  the  barytone  singing:  — 

"  Home  is  the  hunter,  home  from  the  hill, 
And  the  sailor,  home  from  sea." 

Home !  Why,  this  was  home.  The  Street  seemed 
to  stretch  out  its  arms  to  him.  The  ailanthus  tree 
waved  in  the  sunlight  before  the  little  house.  Tree 
and  house  were  old ;  September  had  touched  them. 
Christine  sat  sewing  on  the  balcony.  A  boy  with 
a  piece  of  chalk  was  writing  something  on  the  new 
cement  under  the  tree.  He  stood  back,  head  on  one 
side,  when  he  had  finished,  and  inspected  his  work. 
K.  caught  him  up  from  behind,  and,  swinging  him 
around  — 

388 


"He}'!"  he  said  severely.  "Don't  you  know  bet- 
ter than  to  write  all  over  the  street?  What '11  I  do 
to  you?  Give  you  to  a  policeman?" 

"Aw,  lemme  down,  Mr.  K." 

"You  tell  the  boys  that  if  I  find  this  street 
scrawled  over  any  more,  the  picnic's  off." 

"Aw,  Mr.  K.!" 

"I  mean  it.  Go  and  spend  some  of  that  chalk 
energy  of  yours  in  school." 

He  put  the  boy  down.  There  was  a  certain  tender- 
ness in  his  hands,  as  in  his  voice,  when  he  dealt  with 
children.  All  his  severity  did  not  conceal  it. 

"Get  along  with  you,  Bill.    Last  bell's  rung." 

As  the  boy  ran  off,  K.'s  eye  fell  on  what  he  had 
written  on  the  cement.  At  a  certain  part  of  his  ca- 
reer, the  child  of  such  a  neighborhood  as  the  Street 
"cancels"  names.  It  is  a  part  of  his  birthright.  He 
does  it  as  he  whittles  his  school  desk  or  tries  to  smoke 
the  long  dried  fruit  of  the  Indian  cigar  tree.  So  K. 
read  in  chalk  on  the  smooth  street :  — 

Mtfx  Wflfojt  Marriage. 
$fdi/tey  Pfige  Love. 

The  childish  scrawl  stared  up  at  him  impudently, 
a  sacred  thing  profaned  by  the  day.  K.  stood  and 
looked  at  it.  The  barytone  was  still  singing;  but  now 
it  was  "I'm  twenty-one,  and  she's  eighteen."  It 
was  a  cheerful  air,  as  should  be  the  air  that  had  ac- 
companied Johnny  Rosenfeld  to  his  long  sleep.  The 
light  was  gone  from  K.'s  face  again.  After  all,  the 
Street  meant  for  him  not  so  much  home  as  it  meant 

3*9 


Sidney.  And  now,  before  very  long,  that  book  of  his 
life,  like  others,  would  have  to  be  closed. 

He  turned  and  went  heavily  into  the  little- 
house. 

Christine  called  to  him  from  her  little  balcony:  - 

"  I  thought  I  heard  your  step  outside.  Have  you 
time  to  come  out?" 

K.  went  through  the  parlor  and  stood  in  the  long 
window.  His  steady  eyes  looked  down  at  her. 

"I  see  very  little  of  you  now,"  she  complained. 
And,  when  he  did  not  reply  immediately:  "Have 
you  made  any  definite  plans,  K.?M 

"  I  shall  do  Max's  work  until  he  is  able  to  take 
hold  again.  After  that  — " 

"You  will  go  away?" 

"I  think  so.  I  am  getting  a  good  many  letters, 
one  way  and  another.  I  suppose,  now  I  'm  back  in 
harness,  I'll  stay.  My  old  place  is  closed.  I'd  go 
back  there  —  they  want  me.  But  it  seems  so  futile, 
Christine,  to  leave  as  I  did,  because  I  felt  that  I  had 
no  right  to  go  on  as  things  were;  and  now  to  crawl 
back  on  the  strength  of  having  had  my  hand  forced, 
and  to  take  up  things  again,  not  knowing  that  I  've 
a  bit  more  right  to  do  it  than  when  I  left! " 

"  I  went  to  see  Max  yesterday.  You  know  what  he 
thinks  about  all  that." 

He  took  an  uneasy  turn  up  and  down  the  bal- 
cony. 

"  But  who?  "  he  demanded.  "Who  would  do  such 
a  thing?  I  tell  you,  Christine,  it  is  n't  possible." 

390 


She  did  not  pursue  the  subject.  Her  thoughts  had 
flown  ahead  to  the  little  house  without  K.,  to  days 
without  his  steps  on  the  stairs  or  the  heavy  creak 
of  his  big  chair  overhead  as  he  dropped  into  it. 

But  perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  he  went.  She 
had  her  own  life  to  live.  She  had  no  expectation  of 
happiness,  but,  somehow  or  other,  she  must  build 
on  the  shaky  foundation  of  her  marriage  a  house  of 
life,  with  resignation  serving  for  content,  perhaps 
with  fear  lurking  always.  That  she  knew.  But  with 
no  active  misery.  Misery  implied  affection,  and  her 
love  for  Palmer  was  quite  dead. 

"Sidney  will  be  here  this  afternoon." 

"Good."    His  tone  was  non-committal. 

"Has  it  occurred  to  you,  K.,  that  Sidney  is  not 
very  happy?" 

He  stopped  in  front  of  her. 

"She's  had  a  great  anxiety." 

"She  has  no  anxiety  now.   Max  is  doing  well." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"I'm  not  quite  sure,  but  I  think  I  know.  She'? 
lost  faith  in  Max,  and  she's  not  like  me.  I  —  I  knew 
about  Palmer  before  I  married  him.  I  got  a  letter. 
It 's  all  rather  hideous  —  I  need  n't  go  into  it.  I  was 
afraid  to  back  out;  it  was  just  before  my  wedding. 
But  Sidney  has  more  character  than  I  have.  Max 
is  n't  what  she  thought  he  was,  and  I  doubt  whether 
she'll  marry  him." 

K.  glanced  toward  the  street  where  Sidney's  name 
Max's  lay  open  to  the  sun  and  to  the  smiles  of 
391 


the  Street.  Christine  might  be  right,  but  that  did 
not  alter  things  for  him. 

Christine's  thoughts  went  back  inevitably  to 
herself;  to  Palmer,  who  was  doing  better  just  new; 
to  K.,  who  was  going  away  —  went  back  with  an 
ache  to  the  night  K.  had  taken  her  in  his  arms  and 
then  put  her  away.  How  wrong  things  were !  What 
•a  mess  life  was! 

/'When  you  go  away,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  want 
"you  to  remember  this.  I  'm  going  to  do  my  best,  K. 
You  have  taught  me  all  I  know.  All  my  life  I  '11  have 
to  overlook  things;  I  know  that.  But,  in  his  way, 
Palmer  cares  for  me.  He  will  always  come  back,  and 
perhaps  sometime  — " 

Her  voice  trailed  off.  Far  ahead  of  her  she  saw  the 
years  stretching  out,  marked,  not  by  days  and 
months,  but  by  Palmer's  wanderings  away,  his  re- 
morseful returns. 

"  Do  a  little  more  than  forgetting,"  K.  said.  "Try 
to  care  for  him,  Christine.  You  did  once.  And  that's 
your  strongest  weapon.  It's  always  a  woman's 
strongest  weapon.  And  it  wins  in  the  end." 

"I  shall  try,  K.,"  she  answered  obediently. 

But  he  turned  away  from  the  look  in  her  eyes. 

Harriet  was  abroad.  She  had  sent  cards  from 
Paris  to  her  "trade."  It  was  an  innovation.  The 
two  or  three  people  on  the  Street  who  received  her 
engraved  announcement  that  she  was  there,  "buy- 
ing new  chic  models  for  the  autumn  and  winter  — 
afternoon  frocks,  evening  gowns,  reception  dresses* 


and  wraps,  from  Poiret,  Martial  et  Armand,  and 
others,"  left  the  envelopes  casually  on  the  parlor 
table,  as  if  communications  from  Paris  were  quite 
.to  be  expected. 

So  K.  lunched  alone,  and  ate  little.  After  luncheon 
lie  fixed  a  broken  ironing-stand  for  Katie,  and  in 
•return  she  pressed  a  pair  of  trousers  for  him.  He  had 
it  in  mind  to  ask  Sidney  to  go  out  with  him  in  Max's 
-car,  and  his  most  presentable  suit  was  very  shabby. 

"I'm  thinking,"  said  Katie,  when  she  brought 
•the  pressed  garments  up  over  her  arm  and  passed 
-them  in  through  a  discreet  crack  in  the  door,  "that 
:these  pants  will  stand  more  walking  than  sitting, 
.Mr.  K.  They're  getting  mighty  thin." 

"I'll  take  a  duster  along  in  case  of  accident,"  he 
^promised  her;  "and  to-morrow  I'll  order  a  suit, 
Katie." 

"I'll  believe  it  when  I  see  it,"  said  Katie  from 
'the  stairs.  "Some  fool  of  a  woman  from  the  alley 
•will  come  in  to-night  and  tell  you  she  can't  pay  her 
•rent,  and  she'll  take  your  suit  away  in  her  pocket- 
'book  —  as  like  as  not  to  pay  an  installment  on  a 
ipiano.  There's  two  new  pianos  in  the  alley  since 
you  came  here." 

"I  promise  it,  Katie." 

"Show  it  to  me,"  said  Katie  laconically.  "And 
Jon't  go  to  picking  up  anything  you  drop!" 

Sidney  came  home  at  half-past  two  —  came  deli- 
cately flushed,  as  if  she  had  hurried,  and  with  a 
tremulous  smile  that  caught  Katie's  eye  at  once. 

393 


"Bless  the  child!"  she  said.  "There's  no  need  to 
ask  how  he  is  to-day.  You're  all  one  smile." 

The  smile  set  just  a  trifle. 

"Katie,  some  one  has  written  my  name  out 
on  the  street,  in  chalk.  It's  with  Dr.  Wilson's, 
and  it  looks  so  silly.  Please  go  out  and  sweep 
it  off." 

"I'm  about  crazy  with  their  old  chalk.  I'll  do 
it  after  a  while." 

"  Please  do  it  now.  I  don't  want  any  one  to  see  it. 
Is  —  is  Mr.  K.  upstairs?" 

But  when  she  learned  that  K.  was  upstairs,  oddly 
enough,  she  did  not  go  up  at  once.  She  stood  in  the 
lower  hall  and  listened.  Yes,  he  was  there.  She 
could  hear  him  moving  about.  Her  lips  parted 
slightly  as  she  listened. 

Christine,  looking  in  from  her  balcony,  saw  her 
there,  and,  seeing  something  in  her  face  that  she 
had  never  suspected,  put  her  hand  to  her  throat. 

"Sidney!" 

"Oh  — hello,  Chris." 

"Won't  you  come  and  sit  with  me?" 

"  I  have  n't  much  time  —  that  is,  I  want  to  speak 
to  K." 

"You  can  see  him  when  he  comes  down." 

Sidney  came  slowly  through  the  parlor.  It  occurred 
to  her,  all  at  once,  that  Christine  must  see  a  lot 
of  K.,  especially  now.  No  doubt  he  was  in  and 
out  of  the  house  often.  And  how  pretty  Christine 
was!  She  was  unhappy,  too.  All  that  seemed  to  be 

394 


(K 


necessary  to  win  K.'s  attention  was  to  be  unhappy 
enough.  Well,  surely,  in  that  case  — 

"How  is  Max?" 

"Still  better." 

Sidney  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  railing ;  but  she 
was  careful,  Christine  saw,  to  face  the  staircase. 
There  was  silence  on  the  balcony.  Christine  sewed; 
Sidney  sat  and  swung  her  feet  idly. 

"Dr.  Ed  says  Max  wants  you  to  give  up  your 
training  and  marry  him  now." 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  marry  him  at  all,  Chris." 

Upstairs,  K.'s  door  slammed.  It  was  one  of  his 
failings  that  he  always  slammed  doors.  Harriet  used 
to  be  quite  disagreeable  about  it. 

Sidney  slid  from  the  railing. 

"There  he  is  now." 

Perhaps,  in  all  her  frivolous,  selfish  life,  Christine 
had  never  had  a  bigger  moment  than  the  one  that 
followed.  She  could  have  said  nothing,  and,  in  the 
queer  way  that  life  goes,  K.  might  have  gone  away 
from  the  Street  as  empty  of  heart  as  he  had  come 
to  it. 

"Be  very  good  to  him,  Sidney,"  she  said  un- 
steadily. "He  cares  so  much." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

K.  WAS  being  very  dense.  For  so  long  had  he  con- 
sidered Sidney  as  unattainable  that  now  his  mascu- 
line mind,  a  little  weary  with  much  wretchedness,, 
refused  to  move  from  its  old  attitude. 

"It  was  glamour,  that  was  all,  K.,"  said  Sidney 
bravely. 

"But,  perhaps, "said  K.,  "it's  just  because  of  that 
miserable  incident  with  Carlotta.  That  was  n't  the 
right  thing,  of  course,  but  Max  has  told  me  the 
story.  It  was  really  quite  innocent.  She  fainted  in 
the  yard,  and  - 

Sidney  was  exasperated. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  marry  him,  K.?" 

K.  looked  straight  ahead. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  happy,  dear." 

They  were  on  the  terrace  of  the  White  Springs 
Hotel  again.  K.  had  ordered  dinner,  making  a  great 
to-do  about  getting  the  dishes  they  both  liked.  But 
now  that  it  was  there,  they  were  not  eating.  K. 
had  placed  his  chair  so  that  his  profile  was  turned 
toward  her.  He  had  worn  the  duster  religiously  until 
nightfall,  and  then  had  discarded  it.  It  hung  limp 
and  dejected  on  the  back  of  his  chair.  Past  K.'s 
profile  Sidney  could  see  the  magnolia  tree  shaped 
like  a  heart. 

396 


"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Sidney  suddenly,  "that 
you  are  kind  to  every  one  but  me,  K." 

He  fairly  stammered  his  astonishment:  — 

"Why,  what  on  earth  have  I  done?" 

<:  You  are  trying  to  make  me  marry  Max,  are  n't 
you?" 

She  was  very  properly  ashamed  of  that,  and,  when 
he  failed  of  reply  out  of  sheer  inability  to  think  of 
one  that  would  not  say  too  much,  she  went  hastily 
to  something  else:  — • 

"It  is  hard  for  me  to  realize  that  you  —  that 
you  lived  a  life  of  your  own,  a  busy  life,  doing  useful 
diings,  before  you  came  to  us.  I  wish  you  would  tell 
me  something  about  yourself.  If  we're  to  be  friends 
when  you  go  away,"  —  she  had  to  stop  there,  for 
the  lump  in  her  throat,  —  "  I  '11  want  to  know  how 
to  think  of  you,  —  who  your  friends  are,  —  all 
that." 

He  made  an  effort.  He  was  thinking,  of  course, 
that  he  would  be  visualizing  her,  in  the  hospital, 
in  the  little  house  on  its  side  street,  as  she  looked 
just  then,  her  eyes  like  stars,  her  lips  just  parted,  her 
hands  folded  before  her  on  the  table. 

"I  shall  be  working,"  he  said  at  last.  "So  will 
you." 

"Does  that  mean  you  won't  have  time  to  think 
of  me?" 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  stupider  than  usual  to-night. 
You  can  think  of  me  as  never  forgetting  you  or  the 
Street,  working  or  playing," 

397 


~  Playing!  Of  course  he  would  not  work  all  the  time. 
And  he  was  going  back  to  his  old  friends,  to  people 
who  had  always  known  him,  to  girls  — 

He  did  his  best  then.  He  told  her  of  the  old  family 
house,  built  by  one  of  his  forebears  who  had  been  a 
king's  man  until  Washington  had  put  the  case  for 
the  colonies,  and  who  had  given  himself  and  his 
oldest  son  then  to  the  cause  that  he  made  his  own. 
He  told  of  old  servants  who  had  wept  when  he  de- 
cided to  close  the  house  and  go  away.  When  she 
fell  silent,  he  thought  he  was  interesting  her.  He 
told  her  the  family  traditions  that  had  been  the 
fairy  tales  of  his  childhood.  He  described  the  library, 
the  choice  room  of  the  house,  full  of  family  paintings 
in  old  gilt  frames,  and  of  his  father's  collection  of 
books.  Because  it  was  home,  he  waxed  warm  over 
it  at  last,  although  it  had  rather  hurt  him  at  first 
to  remember.  It  brought  back  the  other  things  that 
he  wanted  to  forget. 

But  a  terrible  thing  was  happening  to  Sidney.  Side 
by  side  with  the  wonders  he  described  so  casually, 
she  was  placing  the  little  house.  What  an  exile  it 
must  have  been  for  him!  How  hopelessly  middle- 
class  they  must  have  seemed !  How  idiotic  of  her  to 
think,  for  one  moment,  that  she  could  ever  belong 
in  this  new-old  life  of  his ! 

What  traditions  had  she?  None,  of  course,  save 
to  be  honest  and  good  and  to  do  her  best  for  the 
people  around  her.  Her  mother's  people,  the  Kenne- 
dys went  back  a  long  way,  but  the"y  had  always  been 

398 


poor.  A  library  full  of  paintings  and  books!  She 
remembered  the  lamp  with  the  blue-silk  shade,  the 
ligure  of  Eve  that  used  to  stand  behind  the  minis- 
ter's portrait,  and  the  cherry  bookcase  with  the 
Encyclopaedia  in  it  and  "  Beacon  Lights  of  History." 
'A 'hen  K.,  trying  his  best  to  interest  her  and  to  con- 
ceal his  own  heaviness  of  spirit,  told  her  of  his  grand- 
iather's  old  carriage,  she  sat  back  in  the  shadow. 

"Fearful  old  thing,"  said  K.,  —  "regular  cabrio- 
let. I  can  remember  yet  the  family  rows  over  it. 
But  the  old  gentleman  liked  it  —  used  to  have  it 
repainted  every  year.  Strangers  in  the  city  used  to 
turn  around  and  stare  at  it  —  thought  it  was  ad- 
vertising something!" 

"When  I  was  a  child,"  said  Sidney  quietly,  "and 
<i  carriage  drove  up  and  stopped  on  the  Street,  I 
always  knew  some  one  had  died!'' 

There  was  a  strained  note  in  her  voice.  K.,  whose 
ear  was  attuned  to  every  note  in  her  voice,  looked 
at  her  quickly. 

"My  great-grandfather,"  said  Sidney  in  the  same 
tone,  "sold  chickens  at  market.  He  did  n't  do  it 
himself;  but  the  fact's  there,  is  n't  it?" 

K.  was  puzzled. 
'What  about  it?"  he  said. 

But  Sidney's  agile  mind  had  already  traveled  on. 
This  K.  she  had  never  known,  who  had  lived  in  a 
wonderful  house,  and  all  the  rest  of  it  —  he  must 
have  known  numbers  of  lovely  women,  his  own  sort 
of  women,  who  had  traveled  and  knew  all  kinds  of 

399 


things:  girls  like  the  daughters  of  the  Executive 
Committee,  who  came  in  from  their  country  places 
in  summer  wiih  great  armfuls  of  flowers,  and  hur- 
ried off,  aftei  consulting  their  jeweled  watches,  to 
luncheon  or  tea,  or  tennis. 

"Go  on,"  said  Sidney  dully.  "Tell  me  about  the 
women  you  have  known,  your  friends,  the  ones  you 
liked  and  the  ones  who  liked  you." 

K.  was  rather  apologetic. 

"I've  always  been  so  busy,"  he  confessed.  "I 
know  a  lot,  but  I  don't  think  they  would  interest 
you.  They  don't  do  anything,  you  know  —  they 
travel  around  and  have  a  good  time.  They  're  rather 
nice  to  look  at,  some  of  them.  But  when  you've 
said  that  you've  said  it  all." 

Nice  to  look  at!  Of  course  they  would  be,  with 
nothing  else  to  think  of  in  all  the  world  but  of  how 
they  looked. 

Suddenly  Sidney  felt  very  tired.  She  wanted  to 
go  back  to  the  hospital,  and  turn  the  key  in  the 
door  of  her  little  room,  and  lie  with  her  face  down 
on  the  bed. 

"Would  you  mind  very  much  if  I  asked  you  to 
take  me  back?" 

He  did  mind.  He  had  a  depressed  feeling  that  the 
evening  had  failed.  And  his  depression  grew  as  he 
brought  the  car  around.  He  understood,  he  thought. 
She  was  grieving  about  Max.  After  all,  a  girl  could  n't 
care  as  she  had  for  a  year  and  a  half,  and  then  give  a 
man  up  because  of  another  woman,  without  a  wrench. 

400 


Do  you  really  want  to  go  home,  Sidney,  or  were* 
tired  of  sitting  there?  In  that  case,  we  could 
drive  around  for  an  hour  or  two.  I'll  not  talk  if 
you'd  like  to  be  quiet." 

Being  with  K.  had  become  an  agony,  now  that 
she  realized  how  wrong  Christine  had  been,  and  that 
their  worlds,  hers  and  K.'s,  had  only  touched  for  a 
time.  Soon  they  would  be  separated  by  as  wide  a 
gulf  as  that  which  lay  between  the  cherry  bookcase 
—  for  instance,  —  and  a  book-lined  library  hung 
with  family  portraits.  But  she  was  not  disposed  to 
skimp  as  to  agony.  She  would  go  through  with  it 
every  word  a  stab,  if  only  she  might  sit  beside  K. 
a  little  longer,  might  feel  the  touch  of  his  old  gray 
coat  against  her  arm. 

"  I'd  like  to  ride,  if  you  don't  mind." 

K.  turned  the  automobile  toward  the  country- 
roads.  He  was  remembering  acutely  that  other 
ride  after  Joe  in  his  small  car,  the  trouble  he  had  had 
to  get  a  machine,  the  fear  of  he  knew  not  what 
ahead,  and  his  arrival  at  last  at  the  road-house,  to 
find  Max  lying  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  Car- 
lotta  on  her  knees  beside  him. 

"K." 

"Yes?" 

"Was  there  anybody  you  cared  about,  —  any 
girl,  —  when  you  left  home?" 

"I  was  not  in  love  with  any  one,  if  that's  what 
you  mean." 

"You  knew  Max  before,  did  n't  you?" 
401 


"Yes.   You  know  that." 

"If  you  knew  things  about  him  that  I  should 
have  known,  why  did  n't  you  tell  me?" 

"I  could  n't  do  that,  could  I?  Anyhow—" 

"Yes?" 

"I  thought  everything  would  be  all  right.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  the  mere  fact  of  your  caring  for 
him  -  That  was  shaky  ground ;  he  got  off  it 
quickly.  "Schwitter  has  closed  up.  Do  you  want 
to  stop  there?" 

"Not  to-night,  please." 

They  were  near  the  white  house  now.  Schwitter's 
had  closed  up,  indeed.  The  sign  over  the  entrance 
was  gone.  The  lanterns  had  been  taken  down,  and 
in  the  dusk  they  could  see  Tillie  rocking  her  baby 
on  the  porch.  As  if  to  cover  the  last  traces  of  his  late 
infamy,  Schwitter  himself  was  watering  the  worn 
places  on  the  lawn  with  the  garden  can. 

The  car  went  by.  Above  the  low  hum  of  the  en- 
gine they  could  hear  Tillie's  voice,  flat  and  unmusi- 
cal, but  filled  with  the  harmonies  of  love  as  she  sang 
to  the  child. 

When  they  had  left  the  house  far  behind,  K.  was 
suddenly  aware  that  Sidney  was  crying.  She  sat 
with  her  head  turned  away,  using  her  handker- 
chief stealthily.  He  drew  the  car  up  beside  the  road, 
and  in  a  masterful  fashion  turned  her  shoulders 
about  until  she  faced  him. 

"Now,  tell  me  about  it,"  he  said. 

"  It's  just  silliness.  I  'm  —  I  'm  a  little  bit  lonely/* 

402 


"Lonely!" 

"Aunt  Harriet's  in  Paris,  and  with  Joe  gone  and 
everybody  — 

"Aunt  Harriet!" 

He  was  properly  dazed,  for  sure.  If  she  had  saicl 
she  was  lonely  because  the  cherry  bookcase  was  in 
Paris,  he  could  not  have  been  more  bewildered. 
And  Joe! 

"And  wich  you  going  away  and  never  coming 
back—" 

"I'll  come  back,  of  course.  How's  this?  I'll 
promise  to  come  back  when  you  graduate,  and  send 
you  flowers." 

"I  think,"  said  Sidney,  "that  I'll  become  an 
army  nurse." 

"  I  hope  you  won't  do  that." 

"You  won't  know,  K.  You'll  be  back  with  your 
old  friends.  You'll  have  forgotten  the  Street  and 
all  of  us." 

"Do  you  really  think  that?" 

"Girls  who  have  been  everywhere,  and  have 
lovely  clothes,  and  who  won't  know  a  T  bandage 
from  a  figure  eight!" 

"There  will  never  be  anybody  in  the  world  like 
you  to  me,  dear." 

His  voice  was  husky. 

"You  are  saying  that  to  comfort  me." 

"To  comfort  you!  I  —  who  have  wanted  you  so 
long  that  it  hurts  even  to  think  about  it!  Ever  since 
the  night  I  came  up  the  Street,  and  you  were  sitting 

403 


there  on  the  steps  —  oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  if  you 
only  cared  a  little!" 

Because  he  was  afraid  that  he  would  get  out  of 
hand  and  take  her  in  his  arms,  —  which  would  be 
idiotic,  since,  of  course,  she  did  not  care  for  him  that 
way,  —  he  gripped  the  steering-wheel.  It  gave  him 
a  curious  appearance  of  making  a  pathetic  appeal  tc 
the  wind-shield. 

"I  have  been  trying  to  make  you  say  that  all 
evening!"  said  Sidney.  "I  love  you  so  much  that 
K.,  won't  you  take  me  in  your  arms?" 

Take  her  in  his  arms !  He  almost  crushed  her.  He 
held  her  to  him  and  muttered  incoherencies  until 
she  gasped.  It  was  as  if  he  must  make  up  for  long; 
arrears  of  hopelessness.  He  held  her  off  a  bit  to  look 
at  her,  as  if  to  be  sure  it  was  she  and  no  changeling, 
and  as  if  he  wanted  her  eyes  to  corroborate  her  lips. 
There  was  no  lack  of  confession  in  her  eyes;  they 
showed  him  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth. 

"It  was  you  always,  K.,"  she  confessed.  "I  just 
did  n't  realize  it.  But  now,  when  you  look  back, 
don't  you  see  it  was?" 

He  looked  back  over  the  months  when  she  had 
seemed  as  unattainable  as  the  stars,  and  he  did  not 
see  it.  He  shook  his  head. 

"  I  never  had  even  a  hope." 

"Not  when  I  came  to  you  with  everything?  I 
brought  you  all  my  troubles,  and  you  always 
helped." 

Her  eyes  filled.  She  bent  down  and  kissed  one  of 
404 


his  hands.  He  was  so  happy  that  the  foolish  littU 
caress  made  his  heart  hammer  in  his  ears. 

"  i  think,  K.,  that  is  how  one  can  always  tell  when 
it  is  the  right  one,  and  will  be  the  right  one  forever 
and  ever.  It  is  the  person  —  one  goes  to  in  trouble." 

He  had  no  words  for  that,  only  little  caressing 
touches  of  her  arm,  her  hand.  Perhaps,  without 
knowing  it,  he  was  formulating  a  sort  of  prayer 
that,  since  there  must  be  troubles,  she  would  al- 
ways come  to  him  and  he  would  always  be  able  to 
help  her. 

And  Sidney,  too,  fell  silent.  She  was  recalling 
the  day  she  became  engaged  to  Max,  and  the  lost 
feeling  she  had  had.  She  did  not  feel  the  same  at 
all  now.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  been  wandering, 
and  had  come  home  to  the  arms  that  were  about 
her.  She  would  be  married,  and  take  the  risk  that 
all  women  took,  with  her  eyes  open.  She  would  go 
through  the  valley  of  the  shadow,  as  other  women 
did;  but  R.  would  be  with  her.  Nothing  else  mat- 
tered. Looking  into  his  steady  eyes,  she  knew  that 
she  was  safe.  She  would  never  wither  for  him. 

Where  before  she  had  felt  the  clutch  of  inexorable 
destiny,  the  woman's  fate,  now  she  felt  only  his 
arms  about  her,  her  cheek  on  his  shabby  coat. 

"  I  shall  love  you  all  my  life,"  she  said  shakily. 

His  arms  tightened  about  her. 

The  little  house  was  dark  when  they  got  back  to 
it.  The  Street,  which  had  heard  that  Mr.  Le  Moyne 

405 


approved  of  night  air,  was  raising  its  windows  for 
the  night  and  pinning  cheesecloth  bags  over  its 
curtains  to  keep  them  clean. 

In  the  second-story  front  room  at  Mrs.  McKee's, 
the  barytone  slept  heavily,  and  made  divers  unvocai 
sounds.  He  was  hardening  his  throat,  and  so  slept 
with  a  wet  towel  about  it. 

Down  on  the  doorstep,  Mrs.  McKee  and  Mr. 
Wagner  sat  and  made  love  with  the  aid  of  a  lighted 
match  and  the  pencil-pad. 

The  car  drew  up  at  the  little  house,  and  Sidney  got 
out.  Then  it  drove  away,  for  K.  must  take  it  to  the 
garage  and  walk  back. 

Sidney  sat  on  the  doorstep  and  waited.  How  lovely 
it  all  was!  How  beautiful  life  was !  If  one  did  one's? 
best  by  life,  it  did  its  best  too.  How  steady  K.'s  eyes 
were!  She  saw  the  flicker  of  the  match  across  the 
street,  and  knew  what  it  meant.  Once  she  would 
have  thought  that  that  was  funny;  now  it  seemed 
very  touching  to  her. 

Katie  had  heard  the  car,  and  now  she  came  heavily 
along  the  hall. 

"A  woman  left  this  for  Mr.  K.,"  she  said.  "If 
you  think  it's  a  begging  letter,  you'd  better  keep 
Jt  until  he's  bought  his  new  suit  to-morrow.  Almost 
any  moment  he's  likely  to  bust  out." 

But  it  was  not  a  begging  letter.  K.  read  it  in  the 
hall,  with  Sidney's  shining  eyes  on  him.  It  began 
abruptly:  — 


"  I  'm  going  to  Africa  with  one  of  my  cousins.  She 
is  a  medical  missionary.  Perhaps  I  can  work  things 
out  there.  It  is  a  bad  station  on  the  West  Coast.  I 
am  not  going  because  I  feel  any  call  to  the  work,,  but 
because  I  do  not  know  what  else  to  do. 

"You  were  kind  to  me  the  other  day.  I  believe, 
if  I  had  told  you  then,  you  would  still  have  been 
kind.  I  tried  to  tell  you,  but  I  was  so  terribly  afraid. 

"  If  I  caused  death,  I  did  not  mean  to.  You  will 
think  that  no  excuse,  but  it  is  true.  In  the  hospital, 
when  I  changed  the  bottles  on  Miss  Page's  medicine- 
tray,  I  did  not  care  much  what  happened.  But  it 
was  different  with  you. 

"You  dismissed  me,  you  remember.  I  had  been 
careless  about  a  sponge  count.  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  get  back  at  you.  It  seemed  hopeless  —  you  were 
so  secure.  For  two  or  three  days  I  tried  to  think  of 
some  way  to  hurt  you.  I  almost  gave  up.  Then  I 
found  the  way. 

"  You  remember  the  packets  of  gauze  sponges  we 
made  and  used  in  the  operating-room?  There  were 
twelve  to  each  package.  When  we  counted  them 
as  we  got  them  out,  we  counted  by  packages.  On 
the  night  before  I  left,  I  went  to  the  operating-room 
and  added  one  sponge  every  here  and  there.  Out 
of  every  dozen  packets,  perhaps,  I  fixed  one  that 
had  thirteen.  The  next  day  I  went  away. 

"Then  I  was  terrified.  WThat  if  somebody  died?  I 
.had  meant  to  give  you  trouble,  so  you  would  have 
to  do  certain  cases  a  second  time.  I  swear  that  was 

407 


ail.  I  was  so  frightened  that  I  went  down  sick  ovei* 
it.  When  I  got  better,  I  heard  you  had  lost  a  case 
and  the  cause  was  being  whispered  about.  I  almost 
died  of  terror. 

"  I  tried  to  get  back  into  the  hospital  one  night. 
I  went  up  the  fire-escape,  but  the  windows  were 
locked.  Then  I  left  the  city.  I  could  n't  stand  it. 
I  was  afraid  to  read  a  newspaper. 

"I  am  not  going  to  sign  this  letter.  You  know 
who  it  is  from.  And  I  am  not  going  to  ask  your  for- 
giveness, or  anything  of  that  sort.  I  don't  expect 
it.  But  one  thing  hurt  me  more  than  anything 
else,  the  other  night.  You  said  you  'd  lost  your  faith 
in  yourself.  This  is  to  tell  you  that  you  need  not. 
And  you  said  something  else  —  that  any  one  can 
'come  back.'  I  wonder!" 

K.  stood  in  the  hall  of  the  little  house  with  the 
letter  in  his  hand.  Just  beyond  on  the  doorstep  was 
Sidney,  waiting  for  him.  His  arms  were  still  warm 
from  the  touch  of  her.  Beyond  lay  the  Street,  and 
beyond  that  lay  the  world  and  a  man's  work  to  do. 
Work,  and  faith  to  do  it,  a  good  woman's  hand  in 
the  dark,  a  Providence  that  made  things  right  in  the 
end. 

"Are  you  coming,  K.?" 

"Coming,"  he  said.  And,  when  he  was  beside  her, 
his  long  figure  folded  to  the  short  measure  of  the 
step,  he  stooped  humbly  and  kissed  the  hem  of  her 
soft  white  dress. 

408 


Across  the  Street,  Mr.  Wagner  wrote  something 
in  the  dark  and  then  lighted  a  match. 

"So  K.  is  in  love  with  Sidney  Page,  after  all!"  he 
had  written.  "She  is  a  sweet  girl,  and  he  is  every 
inch  a  man.  But,  to  my  mind,  a  certain  lady  — " 

Mrs.  McKee  flushed  and  blew  out  the  match. 

Late  September  now  on  the  Street,  with  Joe  gone 
and  his  mother  eyeing  the  postman  with  pitiful 
eagerness ;  with  Mrs.  Rosenfeld  moving  heavily  about 
the  setting-up  of  the  new  furniture;  and  with  Johnny 
driving  heavenly  cars,  brake  and  clutch  legs  well 
and  strong.  Late  September,  with  Max  recovering 
and  settling  his  tie  for  any  pretty  nurse  who  hap- 
pened along,  but  listening  eagerly  for  Dr.  Ed's  square 
tread  in  the  hall ;  with  Tillie  rocking  her  baby  on  the 
porch  at  Schwitter's,  and  Carlotta  staring  westward 
over  rolling  seas;  with  Christine  taking  up  her  bur- 
den and  Grace  laying  hers  down;  with  Joe's  tragic 
young  eyes  growing  quiet  with  the  peace  of  the 
tropics. 

Late  September,  with  the  nurses  on  their  knees 
at  prayers  in  the  little  parlor,  and  the  Head  reading, 
her  voice  weary  with  the  day  and  with  good  works. 

"The  Lord  is  my  shepherd,"  she  reads.  "I  shall 
not  want."  .  .  .  "Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  I  will  fear  no  evil." 

Sidney,  on  her  knees  in  the  little  parlor,  repeat? 
the  words  with  the  others.  K.  has  gone  from  the 
Street,  and  before  long  she  will  join  hifll  With  the 

40Q 


vision  of  his  steady  eyes  before  her,  she  adds  her 
own  prayer  to  the  others  —  that  the  touch  of  his 
arms  about  her  may  not  make  her  forget  the  vow  she 
has  taken,  of  charity  and  its  sister,  service,  of  a  cup 
of  water  to  the  thirsty,  of  open  arms  to  a  tired  child, 


!f  HE 


II 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 


THE 
AMAZING  INTERLUDE 


THE  stage  on  which  we  play  our  little  dramas  of 
life  and  love  has  for  most  of  us  but  one  setting. 
It  is  furnished  out  with  approximately  the  same  things. 
Characters  come,  move  about  and  make  their  final  exits 
through  long-familiar  doors.  And  the  back  drop  re- 
mains approximately  the  same  from  beginning  to  end. 
Palace  or  hovel,  forest  or  sea,  it  is  the  background  for 
the  moving  figures  of  the  play. 

So  Sara  Lee  Kennedy  had  a  back  drop  that  had 
every  appearance  of  permanency.  The  great  Scene 
Painter  apparently  intended  that  there  should  be  no 
change  of  set  for  her.  Sara  Lee  herself  certainly  ex- 
pected none. 

But  now  and  then  amazing  things  are  done  on  this 
great  stage  of  ours:  lights  go  down;  the  back  drop, 
which  had  given  the  illusion  of  solidity,  reveals  itself 
transparent.  A  sort  of  fairyland  transformation  takes 
place.  Beyond  the  once  solid  wall  strange  figures 
move  on  —  a  new  mise  en  scene,  with  the  old  blotted 
out  in  darkness.  The  lady,  whom  we  left  knitting  by 


io      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

the  fire,  becomes  a  fairy  —  Sara  Lee  became  a  fairy, 
of  a  sort  —  and  meets  the  prince.  Adventure,  too; 
and  love,  of  course.  And  then  the  lights  go  out,  and 
it  is  the  same  old  back  drop  again,  and  the  lady  is  back 
by  the  fire  —  but  with  a  memory. 

This  is  the  story  of  Sara  Lee  Kennedy's  memory  — • 
and  of  something  more. 

The  early  days  of  the  great  war  saw  Sara  Lee  play- 
ing her  part  in  the  setting  of  a  city  in  Pennsylvania. 
An  ugly  city,  but  a  wealthy  one.  It  is  only  fair  tc 
Sara  Lee  to  say  that  she  shared  in  neither  quality. 
She  was  far  from  ugly,  and  very,  very  far  from  rich. 
She  had  started  her  part  with  a  full  stage,  to  carry  on 
the  figure,  but  one  by  one  they  had  gone  away  into 
the  wings  and  had  not  come  back.  At  nineteen  she 
was  alone  knitting  by  the  fire,  with  no  idea  whatever 
that  the  back  drop  was  of  painted  net,  and  that  beyond 
it,  waiting  for  its  moment,  was  the  forest  of  adven- 
ture. A  strange  forest,  too  —  one  that  Sara  Lee 
would  not  have  recognised  as  a  forest.  And  a  prince 
of  course  —  but  a  prince  as  strange  and  mysterious 
as  the  forest. 

The  end  of  December,  1914,  found  Sara  Lee  quite 
contented.  If  it  was  resignation  rather  than  content, 
no  one  but  Sara  Lee  knew  the  difference.  Knitting, 
too ;  but  not  for  soldiers.  She  was,  to  be  candid,  knit- 
ting an  afghan  against  an  interesting  event  which  in- 
volved a  friend  of  hers. 

Sara  Lee  rather  deplored  the  event  —  in  her  own 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      11 

mind,  of  course,  for  in  her  small  circle  young  unmar- 
ried women  accepted  the  major  events  of  life  without 
question,  and  certainly  without  conversation.  She 
never,  for  instance,  allowed  her  Uncle  James,  with 
whom  she  lived,  to  see  her  working  at  the  afghan; 
and  even  her  Aunt  Harriet  had  supposed  it  to  be  a 
sweater  until  it  assumed  uncompromising  proportions. 

Sara  Lee's  days,  up  to  the  twentieth  of  December, 
1914,  had  been  much  alike.  In  the  mornings  she 
straightened  up  her  room,  which  she  had  copied  from 
one  in  a  woman's  magazine,  with  the  result  that  it 
gave  somehow  the  impression  of  a  baby's  bassinet, 
being  largely  dotted  Swiss  and  ribbon.  Yet  in  a  way 
it  was  a  perfect  setting  for  Sara  Lee  herself.  It  was 
fresh  and  virginal,  and  very,  very  neat  and  white. 
A  resigned  little  room,  like  Sara  Lee,  resigned  to  being 
tucked  away  in  a  corner  and  to  having  no  particular 
outlook.  Peaceful,  too. 

Sometimes  in  the  morning  between  straightening 
her  room  and  going  to  the  market  for  Aunt  Harriet, 
Sara  Lee  looked  at  a  newspaper.  So  she  knew  there 
was  a  war.  She  read  the  headings,  and  when  the 
matter  came  up  for  mention  at  the  little  afternoon 
bridge  club,  as  it  did  now  and  then  after  the  prizes 
were  distributed,  she  always  said  "Isn't  it  horrible!'* 
and  changed  the  subject. 

On  the  night  of  the  nineteenth  of  December  Sara 
Lee  had  read  her  chapter  in  the  Bible  —  she  read  it 
through  once  each  year  —  and  had  braided  down  hei 
hair,  which  was  as  smooth  and  shining  and  lovely  as 


12      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

Sara  Lee  herself,  and  had  raised  her  window  for  the 
night  when  Aunt  Harriet  came  in.  Sara  Lee  did  not 
know,  at  first,  that  she  had  a  visitor.  She  stood  look- 
ing out  toward  the  east,  until  Aunt  Harriet  touched 
her  on  the  arm. 

"  \Yhat  in  the  world !  "  said  Aunt  Harriet.  "  A 
body  would  suppose  it  was  August." 

"  I  was  just  thinking,"  said  Sara  Lee. 

"  You'd  better  do  your  thinking  in  bed.  Jump  in 
and  I'll  put  out  your  light." 

So  Sara  Lee  got  into  her  white  bed  with  the  dotted 
Swiss  valance,  and  drew  the  covers  to  her  chin,  and 
k>oke.d  a  scant  sixteen.  Aunt  Harriet,  who  was  an 
unsentimental  woman,  childless  and  diffident,  found 
her  suddenly  very  appealing  there  in  her  smooth  bed, 
and  did  an  unexpected  thing.  She  kissed  her.  Then 
feeling  extremely  uncomfortable  she  put  out  the  light 
and  went  to  the  door.  There  she  paused. 

"  Thinking!  "  she  said.    "  What  about,  Sara  Lee?  " 

Perhaps  it  was  because  the  light  was  out  that  Sara 
Lee  became  articulate.  Perhaps  it  was  because  things 
that  had  been  forming  in  her  young  mind  for  weeks 
had  at  last  crystallized  into  words.  Perhaps  it  was 
because  of  a  picture  she  had  happened  on  that  day,  of 
a  boy  lying  wounded  somewhere  on  a  battlefield  and 
calling  "Mother!" 

"  About  —  over  there,"  she  said  rather  hesitatingly. 
4  And  about  Anna." 

"Over  there?" 

"  The  war,"  said  Sara  Lee.     "  I  was  just  thinking 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      13 

about  all  those  women  over  there  —  like  Anna,  you 
know.  They  —  they  had  babies,  and  got  everything 
ready  for  them.  And  then  the  babies  grew  up,  and  — 
they're  all  getting  killed." 

"  It's  horrible,"  said  Aunt  Harriet.  "  Do  you  want 
another  blanket?  It's  cold  to-night." 

Sara  Lee  did  not  wish  another  blanket. 

"  I'm  a  little  worried  about  your  Uncle  James,"  said 
Aunt  Harriet,  at  the  door.  "  He's  got  indigestion. 
I  think  I'll  make  him  a  mustard  plaster." 

She  prepared  to  go  out  then,  but  Sara  Lee  spoke 
from  her  white  bed. 

"  Aunt  Harriet,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  think  I'll  ever 
get  married." 

"  I  said  that  too,  once,"  said  Aunt  Harriet  compla- 
cently. "  What's  got  into  your  head  now  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  Sara  Lee  replied  vaguely.  "  I 
just-  What's  the  use?" 

Aunt  Harriet  was  conscious  of  a  hazy  impression 
of  indelicacy.  Coming  from  Sara  Lee  it  was  startling 
and  revolutionary.  In  Aunt  Harriet's  world  young 
women  did  not  question  their  duty,  which  was  to 
marry,  preferably  some  one  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
bear  children,  who  would  be  wheeled  about  that  same 
neighborhood  in  perambulators  and  who  would  ulti- 
mately grow  up  and  look  after  themselves. 

"  The  use  ?  "  she  asked  tartly. 

"Of  having  babies,  and  getting  to  care  about  them. 

and  then There  will  always  be  wars.  won> 

there?" 


I4      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  You  turn  over  and  go  to  sleep,"  counseled  Aunt 
Harriet.  "  And  stop  looking  twenty  years  or  moro 
ahead."  She  hesitated.  "  You  haven't  quarreled 
with  Harvey,  have  you?  " 

Sara  Lee  turned  over  obediently. 

"No.  It's  not  that,"  she  said.  And  the  door 
closed. 

Perhaps,  had  she  ever  had  time  during  the  crowded 
months  that  followed,  Sara  Lee  would  have  dated  cer- 
tain things  from  that  cold  frosty  night  in  December 
when  she  began  to  question  things.  For  after  all  that 
was  what  it  came  to.  She  did  not  revolt.  She  ques- 
tioned. 

She  lay  in  her  white  bed  and  looked  at  things  for  the 
first  time.  The  sky  had  seemed  low  that  night. 
Things  were  nearer.  The  horizon  was  close.  And 
beyond  that  peaceful  horizon,  to  the  east,  something 
was  going  on  that  could  not  be  ignored.  Men  were 
dying.  Killing  and  dying.  Men  who  had  been 
waited  for  as  Anna  watched  for  her  child. 

Downstairs  she  could  hear  Aunt  Harriet  moving 
about.  The  street  was  quiet,  until  a  crowd  of  young 
people  —  she  knew  them  by  their  voices  —  went  by, 
laughing. 

"  It's  horrible."  said  Sara  Lee  to  herself.  There 
was  a  change  in  her,  but  she  was  still  inarticulate. 
Somewhere  in  her  mind,  but  not  formulated,  was  the 
feeling  that  she  was  too  comfortable.  Her  peace  was 
a  cheap  peace,  bought  at  no  price.  Her  last  waking 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE       15 

determination  was  to  finish  the  afghan  quickly  and  to 
begin  to  knit  for  the  men  at  the  war. 

Uncle  James  was  ill  the  next  morning.  Sara  Lee 
went  for  the  doctor,  but  Anna's  hour  had  come  and  he 
was  with  her.  Late  in  the  afternoon  he  came,  how- 
ever, looking  a  bit  gray  round  the  mouth  with  fatigue, 
but  triumphant.  He  had  on  these  occasions  always 
a  sense  of  victory;  even,  in  a  way,  a  feeling  of  being 
part  of  a  great  purpose.  He  talked  at  such  times  of 
the  race,  as  one  may  who  is  doing  his  best  by  it. 

"  Well,"  he  said  when  Sara  Lee  opened  the  door, 
"  it's  a  boy.  Eight  pounds.  Going  to  be  red-headed, 
too."  He  chuckled. 

"  A  boy !  "  said  Sara  Lee.  "I  —  don't  you  bring 
any  girl  babies  any  more?  " 

The  doctor  put  down  his  hat  and  glanced  at  her. 

"  Wanted  a  girl,  to  be  named  for  you?  " 

"  No.  It's  not  that.  It's  only "  She  checked 

herself.  He  wouldn't  understand.  The  race  re- 
quired girl  babies.  "  I've  put  a  blue  bow  on  my  af- 
ghan. Pink  is  for  boys,"  she  said,  and  led  the  way 
upstairs. 

Very  simple  and  orderly  was  the  small  house,  as 
simple  and  orderly  as  Sara  Lee's  days  in  it.  Time 
was  to  come  when  Sara  Lee,  having  left  it,  ached  for 
it  with  every  fiber  of  her  body  and  her  soul  —  for  its 
bright  curtains  and  fresh  paint,  its  regularity,  its  shin- 
ing brasses  and  growing  plants,  its  very  kitchen  pans 
and  green-and- white  oilcloth.  She  was  to  ache,  too. 


16      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

for  her  friends  —  their  small  engrossing  cares,  their 
kindly  interest,  their  familiar  faces. 

Time  was-  to  come,  too,  when  she  came  back,  not  to 
the  little  house,  it  is  true,  but  to  her  friends,  to  Anna 
and  the  others.  But  they  had  not  grown  and  Sara  Lee 
had.  And  that  is  the  story. 

Uncle  James  died  the  next  day.  One  moment  he 
was  there,  an  uneasy  figure,  under  the  tulip  quilt,  and 
the  next  he  had  gone  away  entirely,  leaving  a  terrible 
quiet  behind  him.  He  had  been  the  center  of  the  little 
house,  a  big  and  cheery  and  not  over-orderly  center. 
Followed  his  going  not  only  quiet,  but  a  wretched  tidi- 
ness. There  was  nothing  for  Sara  Lee  to  do  but  to 
think. 

And,  in  the  way  of  mourning  women,  things  that 
Uncle  James  had  said  which  had  passed  unheeded  came 
back  to  her.  One  of  them  was  when  he  had  proposed 
to  adopt  a  Belgian  child,  and  Aunt  Harriet  had  offered 
horrified  protest. 

" All  right,"  he  had  said.  "Of  course,  if  you  feel 

that  way  about  it !  But  I  feel  kind  of  mean 

sometimes,  sitting  here  doing  nothing  when  there's 
such  a  lot  to  be  done." 

Then  he  had  gone  for  a  walk  and  had  come  back 
cheerful  enough  but  rather  quiet. 

There  was  that  other  time,  too,  when  the  German 
Army  was  hurling  itself,  wave  after  wave,  across  the 
Yser  —  only  of  course  Sara  Lee  knew  nothing  of  the 
Yser  then  —  and  when  it  seemed  as  though  the  attenu- 
ated Allied  line  must  surely  crack  and  give.  He  had  . 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      17 

said  then  that  if  he  were  only  twenty  years  youngei 
he  would  go  across  and  help. 

"And  what  about  me?"  Aunt  Harriet  had  asked. 
"  But  I  suppose  I  wouldn't  matter." 

"  You  could  go  to  Jennie's,  couldn't  you  ?  " 

There  had  followed  one  of  those  absurd  wrangles  as 
to  whether  or  not  Aunt  Harriet  would  go  to  Jennie's 
in  the  rather  remote  contingency  of  Uncle  James'  be- 
coming twenty  years  younger  and  going  away. 

And  now  Uncle  James  had  taken  on  the  wings  of 
the  morning  and  was  indeed  gone  away.  And  again  it 
became  a  question  of  Jennie's.  Aunt  Harriet,  rathe? 
dazed  at  first,  took  to  arguing  it  pro  and  con. 

"  Of  course  she  has  room  for  me,"  she  would  say  it? 
her  thin  voice.  "  There's  that  little  room  that  was 
Edgar's.  There's  nobody  in  it  now.  But  there's  only 
room  for  a  single  bed,  Sara  Lee." 

Sara  Lee  was  knitting  socks  now,  all  a  trifle  tight  as 
*o  heel.  "  I  know,"  she  would  say.  "  I'll  get  along. 
Don't  you  worry  about  me." 

Always  these  talks  ended  on  a  note  of  exasperation 
for  Aunt  Harriet.  For  Sara  Lee's  statement  that  she 
could  manage  would  draw  forth  a  plaintive  burst  from 
the  older  woman. 

"If  only  you'd  marry  Harvey,"  she  would  say.  "  I 
don't  know  what's  come  over  you.  You  used  to  like 
him  well  enough." 

"  I  still  like  him." 

"  I've  seen  you  jump  when  the  telephone  bell  rang. 
Your  Uncle  James  often  spoke  about  it.  Pie  noticed 


i8      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

more  than  most  people  thought."  She  followed  Sara 
Lee's  eyes  down  the  street  to  where  Anna  was  wheel- 
ing her  baby  slowly  up  and  down.  Even  from  that 
distance  Sara  Lee  could  see  the  bit  of  pink  which  was 
the  bow  on  her  afghan.  "  I  believe  you're  afraid." 

"Afraid?" 

"  Of  having  children,"  accused  Aunt  Harriet  fret- 
fully. 

Sara  Lee  colored. 

"  Perhaps  I  am,"  she  said ;  "  but  not  the  sort  of 
thing  you  think.  I  just  don't  see  the  use  of  it,  that's 
all.  Aunt  Harriet,  how  long  does  it  take  to  become  a 
hospital  nurse?  " 

"  Mabel  Andrews  was  three  years.  It  spoiled  her 
looks  too.  She  used  to  be  a  right  pretty  girl." 

"Three  years,"  Sara  Lee  reflected.  "By  that 
time " 

The  house  was  very  quiet  and  still  those  days. 
There  was  an  interlude  of  emptiness  and  order,  of  long 
days  during  which  Aunt  Harriet  alternately  grieved 
and  planned,  and  Sara  Lee  thought  of  many  things. 
At  the  Red  Cross  meetings  all  sorts  of  stories  were  cir- 
culated; the  Belgian  atrocity  tales  had  just  reached  the 
country,  and  were  spreading  like  wildfire.  There 
were  arguments  and  disagreements.  A  girl  named 
Schmidt  was  militant  against  them  and  soon  found 
herself  a  small  island  of  defiance  entirely  surrounded 
by  disapproval.  Mabel  Andrews  came  once  to  a  meet- 
ting  and  in  businesslike  fashion  explained  the  Red 
Cross  dressings  and  gave  a  lesson  in  bandaging. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      19 

Forerunner  of  the  many  first-aid  classes  to  come  wai 
that  hour  of  Mabel's,  and  made  memorable  by  one 
thing  she  said. 

"  You  might  as  well  all  get  busy  and  learn  to  do 
such  things,"  she  stated  in  her  brisk  voice.  "  One  of 
our  internes  is  over  there,  and  he  says  we'll  be  in  it 
before  spring." 

After  the  meeting  Sara  Lee  went  up  to  Mabel  and 
put  a  hand  on  her  arm. 

"  Are  you  going?  "  she  asked. 

"  Leaving  day  after  to-morrow.     Why?  " 

"I  —  couldn't  I  be  useful  over  there?  " 

Mabel  smiled  rather  grimly. 

"  What  can  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  can  cook." 

"  Only  men  cooks,  my  dear.     What  else  ?  " 

"  I  could  clean  up,  couldn't  I  ?  There  must  be 
something.  I'd  do  anything  I  could.  Don't  they 
have  people  to  wash  dishes  and — all  that  ?  " 

Mabel  was  on  doubtful  ground  there.  She  knew  of 
a  woman  who  had  been  permitted  to  take  over  her  own 
automobile,  paying  all  her  expenses  and  buying  her 
own  tires  and  gasoline. 

"  She  carries  supplies  to  small  hospitals  in  out-of- 
the-way  places,"  she  said.  "  But  I  don't  suppose  yov 
can  do  that,  Sara  Lee,  can  you?  " 

However,  she  gave  Sara  Lee  a  New  York  address, 
and  Sara  Lee  wrote  and  offered  herself.  She  said 
nothing  to  Aunt  Harriet,  who  had  by  that  time  elected 
to  take  Edgar's  room  at  Cousin  Jennie's  and  was  put- 


20      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

tin,*.;  Uncle  James'  clothes  in  tearful  order  to  send  to 
Belgium.  After  a  time  she  received  a  reply. 

"  We  have  put  your  name  on  our  list  of  volunteers," 
said  the  letter,  "  but  of  course  you  understand  that 
only  trained  workers  are  needed  now.  France  and 
England  are  full  of  untrained  women  who  are  eager 
to  help." 

It  was  that  night  that  Sara  Lee  became  engaged  to 
Harvey. 

Sara  Lee's  attitude  toward  Harvey  was  one  that  she 
never  tried  to  analyze.  When  he  was  not  with  her  she 
thought  of  him  tenderly,  romantically.  This  was  per- 
haps due  to  the  photograph  of  him  on  her  mantel. 
There  was  a  dash  about  the  picture  rather  lacking  in 
the  original,  for  it  was  a  profile,  and  in  it  the  young 
man's  longish  hair,  worn  pompadour,  the  slight  thrust 
forward  of  the  head,  the  arch  of  the  nostrils, —  gave 
him  a  sort  of  tense  eagerness,  a  look  of  running  against 
the  wind.  From  the  photograph  Harvey  might  have 
been  a  gladiator;  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  was  a  bond 
salesman. 

So  during  the  daytime  Sarah  Lee  looked  —  at  inter- 
vals —  at  the  photograph,  and  got  that  feel  of  drive 
and  force.  And  in  the  evenings  Harvey  came,  and 
she  lost  it.  For,  outside  of  a  frame,  he  became  a 
rather  sturdy  figure,  of  no  romance,  but  of  a  comfort- 
ing solidity.  A  kindly  young  man,  with  a  rather  wide 
face  and  hands  disfigured  as  to  fingers  by  much  early 
baseball.  He  had  heavy  shoulders,  the  sort  .a  girl 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      21 

might  rely  on  to  carry  many  burdens.  A  younger  and 
tidier  Uncle  James,  indeed  —  the  same  cheery  manner, 
the  same  robust  integrity,  and  the  same  small  ambi- 
tion. 

To  earn  enough  to  keep  those  dependent  on  him, 
and  to  do  it  fairly;  to  tell  the  truth  and  wear  clean 
linen  and  not  run  into  debt;  and  to  marry  Sara  Lee 
and  love  and  cherish  her  all  his  life  —  this  was 
Harvey.  A  plain  and  likable  man,  a  lover  and  hus- 
band to  be  sure  of.  But 

He  came  that  night  to  see  Sarah  Lee.  There  was 
nothing  unusual  about  that.  He  came  every  night. 
But  he  came  that  night  full  of  determination.  That 
was  not  unusual,  either,  but  it  had  not  carried  him  far. 
He  had  no  idea  that  his  picture  was  romantic.  He 
would  have  demanded  it  back  had  he  so  much  as  sus- 
pected it.  He  wore  his  hair  in  a  pompadour  because 
of  the  prosaic  fact  that  he  had  a  cow-lick.  He  was 
very  humble  about  himself,  and  Sara  Lee  was  to  him 
as  wonderful  as  his  picture  was  to  her. 

Sara  Lee  was  in  the  parlor,  waiting  for  him.  The 
one  electric  lamp  was  lighted,  so  that  the  phonograph 
in  one  corner  became  only  a  bit  of  reflected  light. 
There  was  a  gas  fire  going,  and  in  front  of  it  was  a 
white  fur  rug.  In  Aunt  Harriet's  circle  there  were 
few  orientals.  The  Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  not  yet 
entirely  paid  for,  stood  against  the  wall,  and  a  leather 
chair,  hollowed  by  Uncle  James'  solid  body,  was  by  the 
fire.  It  was  just  such  a  tidy,  rather  vulgar  and  home- 


22      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

like  room  as  no  doubt  Harvey  would  picture  for  his 
own  home.  He  had  of  course  never  seen  the  white 
simplicity  of  Sara  Lee's  bedroom. 

Sara  Lee,  in  a  black  dress,  admitted  him.  When  he 
had  taken  off  his  ulster  and  his  overshoes  —  he  had 
been  raised  by  women  —  and  came  in,  she  was  stand- 
ing by  the  fire. 

"  Raining,"  he  said.  "  It's  getting  colder.  May  be 
snow  before  morning." 

Then  he  stopped.  Sometimes  the  wonder  of  Sara 
Lee  got  him  in  the  throat.  She  had  so  much  the  look 
of  being  poised  for  flight.  Even  in  her  quietest  mo- 
ments there  was  that  about  her  —  a  sort  of  repressed 
eagerness,  a  look  of  seeing  things  far  away.  Aunt 
Harriet  said  that  there  were  times  when  she  had  a 
"  flighty  "  look. 

And  that  night  it  was  that  impression  of  elusive- 
hess  that  stopped  Harvey's  amiable  prattle  about  the 
leather  and  took  him  to  her  with  his  arms  out. 

"  Sara  Lee !  "  he  said.     "  Don't  look  like  that !  " 

"Like  what?  "  said  Sara  Lee  prosaically. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  muttered.  "  You  —  sometimes 

you  look  as  though "  Then  he  put  his  arms 

round  her.  "  I  love  you,"  he  said.  "  I'll  be  good  to 
you,  Sara  Lee,  if  you'll  have  me."  He  bent  down  and 
put  his  cheek  against  hers.  "  If  you'll  only  marry  me, 
dear." 

A  woman  has  a  way  of  thinking  most  clearly  and 
lucidly  when  the  man  has  stopped  thinking.  With  nis 
arms  about  her  Harvey  could  onlv  feel.  He  wa? 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      23 

trembling.  As  for  Sara  Lee,/  instantly  two  pictures 
flashed  through  her  mind,  each  distinct,  each  clear,  al- 
most photographic.  One  was  of  Anna,  in  her  tiny 
house  clown  the  street,  dragged  with  a  nursing  baby. 
The  other  was  that  one  from  a  magazine  of  a  boy 
dying  on  a  battlefield  and  crying  "  Mother !  " 

Two  sorts  of  maternity  —  one  quiet,  peaceful,  not 
always  beautiful,  but  the  thing  by  which  and  to  which 
she  had  been  reared;  the  other  vicarious,  of  all  the 
world. 

"Don't  you  love  me  —  that  way?"  he  said,  his 
cheek  still  against  hers. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  You  don't  know!'' 

It  was  then  that  he  straightened  away  from  her 
and  looked  without  seeing  at  the  blur  of  light  which 
was  the  phonograph.  Sara  Lee,  glancing  up,  saw  him 
then  as  he  was  in  the  photograph,  face  set  and  head 
thrust  forward,  and  that  clean-cut  drive  of  jaw  and 
backward  flow  of  heavy  hair  that  marked  him  all  man, 
and  virile  man. 

She  slipped  her  hand  into  his. 

"  I  do  love  you,  Harvey,"  she  said,  and  went  into 
his  arms  with  the  complete  surrender  of  a  child. 

He  was  outrageously  happy.  He  sat  on  the  arm  of 
Uncle  James'  chair  where  she  was  almost  swallowed 
up,  and  with  his  face  against  hers  he  made  his  simple 
plans.  Now  and  then  he  kissed  the  little  hollow  under 
her  ear,  and  because  he  knew  nothing  of  the  abarfdoR 
of  a  woman  in  a  great  passion  he  missed  nothing  in  her 


24      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

attitude.  Into  her  silence  and  passivity  he  read  the 
reflection  of  his  own  adoring  love  and  thought  it  hers. 

To  be  fair  to  Sara  Lee,  she  imagined  that  her  con- 
tent in  Harvey's  devotion  was  something  more,  as 
much  more  as  was  necessary.  For  in  Sara  Lee's  ex- 
perience marriage  was  a  thing  compounded  of  affec- 
tion, habit,  small  differences  and  a  home.  Of  pas- 
sion, that  passion  which  later  she  was  to  meet  and 
suffer  from,  the  terrible  love  that  hurts  and  agonizes, 
she  had  never  even  dreamed. 

Great  days  were  before  Sara  Lee.  She  sat  by  the 
fire  and  knitted,  and  behind  the  back  drop  on  the  great 
stage  of  the  world  was  preparing,  unsuspected,  the 
wise  en  scene. 


II 

ABOUT  the  middle  of  January  Mabel  Andrews 
wrote  to  Sara  Lee  from  France,  where  she  was 
already  installed  in  a  hospital  at  Calais. 

The  evening  before  the  letter  came  Harvey  had 
brought  round  the  engagement  ring.  He  had  made  a 
little  money  in  war  stocks,  and  into  the  ring  he  had 
put  every  dollar  of  his  profits  —  and  a  great  love,  and 
gentleness,  and  hopes  which  he  did  not  formulate  even 
to  himself. 

It  was  a  solitaire  diamond,  conventionally  set,  and 
larger,  far  larger,  than  the  modest  little  stone  on  which 
Harvey  had  been  casting  anxious  glances  for  months. 

"  Do  you  like  it,  honey?  "  he  asked  anxiously. 

Sara  Lee  looked  at  it  on  her  finger. 

"It  is  lovely!  It  —  it's  terrible!"  said  poor  Sara 
Lee,  and  cried  on  his  shoulder. 

Harvey  was  not  subtle.  He  had  never  even  heard 
of  Mabel  Andrews,  and  he  had  a  tendency  to  restrict 
his  war  reading  to  the  quarter  column  in  the  morning 
paper  entitled  "  Salient  Points  of  the  Day's  War 
News." 

What  could  he  know,  for  instance,  of  wounded  men 
who  were  hungry?  Which  is  what  Mabel  wrote 
about. 

"  You  said  you  could  cook,"  she  had  written. 
*  Well,  we  need  cooks,  and  something  to  cook.  Some- 

25 


26      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

time  they'll  have  it  all  fixed,  no  doubt,  but  just  now  it's 
awful,  Sara  Lee.  The  British  have  money  and  food, 
plenty  of  it.  But  here  —  yesterday  I  cut  the  clothes 
off  a  wounded  Belgian  boy.  He  had  been  forty-eight 
hours  on  a  railway  siding,  without  even  soup  or 
coffee." 

It  was  early  in  the  war  then,  and  between  Ypres  and 
the  sea  stretched  a  long  thin  line  of  Belgian  trenches. 
A  frantic  Belgian  Government,  thrust  out  of  its  own 
land,  was  facing  the  problem,  with  scant  funds  and 
with  no  materiel  of  any  sort,  for  feeding  that  desolate 
Jittle  army.  France  had  her  own  problems  —  her 
army,  non-productive  industrially,  and  the  great  and 
constantly  growing  British  forces  quartered  there, 
paying  for  what  they  got,  but  requiring  much.  The 
world  knows  now  of  the  starvation  of  German-occu- 
pied Belgium.  What  it  does  not  know  and  may  never 
know  is  of  the  struggle  during  those  early  days  to  feed 
the  heroic  Belgian  Army  in  their  wet  and  almost  un- 
tenable trenches. 

Hospital  trains  they  could  improvise  out  of  what 
rolling  stock  remained  to  them.  Money  could  be  bor- 
rowed, and  was.  But  food?  Clothing?  Ammuni- 
tion? In  his  little  villa  on  the  seacoast  the  Belgian 
King  knew  that  his  soldiers  were  hungry,  and  paced 
the  floor  of  his  tiny  living-room;  and  over  in  an  Ameri- 
can city  whose  skyline  was  as  pointed  with  furnace 
turrets  as  Constantinople's  is  with  mosques,  over  there 
Sara  Lee  heard  that  call  of  hunger,  and  —  put  on  her 
engagement  ring1. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      27 

Later  on  that  evening,  with  Harvey's  wide  cheer- 
ful face  turned  adoringly  to  her,  Sara  Lee  formulated 
a  question : 

"  Don't  you  sometimes  feel  as  though  you'd  like  to 
go  to  France  and  fight  ?  " 

"What  for?" 

"  Well,  they  need  men,  don't  they?  " 

"  I  guess  they  don't  need  me,  honey.  I'd  be  the 
dickens  of  a  lot  of  use !  Never  fired  a  gun  in  my  life." 

"  You  could  learn.     It  isn't  hard." 

Harvey  sat  upright  and  stared  at  her. 

"Oh,  if  you  want  me  to  go "  he  said,  and 

waited. 

Sara  Lee  twisted  her  ring  on  her  finger. 

"  Nobody  wants  anybody  to  go,"  she  said  not  very 
elegantly.  "I'd  just  —  I'd  rather  like  to  think  you 
wanted  to  go." 

That  was  almost  too  subtle  for  Harvey.  Something 
about  him  was  rather  reminiscent  of  Uncle  James  on 
mornings  when  he  was  determined  not  to  go  to  church. 

"  It's  not  our  fight,"  he  said.  "  And  as  far  as  that 
goes,  I'm  not  so  sure  there  isn't  right  on  both  sides. 
Or  wrong.  Most  likely  wrong.  I'd  look  fine  going 
over  there  to  help  the  Allies,  and  then  making  up  my 
mind  it  was  the  British  who'd  spilled  the  beans.  No\v 
let's  talk  about  something  interesting  —  for  instance 
how  much  we  love  each  other." 

It  was  always  "  we  "  with  Harvey.  In  his  simple 
creed  if  a  girl  accepted  a  man  and  let  him  kiss  her  and 
wore  his  ring  it  was  a  reciprocal  love  affair.  It  never 


28      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

occurred  to  him  that  sometimes  as  the  evening  dragged 
toward  a  close  Sara  Lee  was  just  a  bit  weary  of  hi? 
arms,  and  that  she  sought,  after  he  had  gone,  the 
haven  of  her  little  white  room,  and  closed  the  door, 
and  had  to  look  rather  a  long  time  at  his  photograph 
before  she  was  in  a  properly  loving  mood  again. 

But  that  night  after  his  prolonged  leave-taking  Sara 
Lee  went  upstairs  to  her  room  and  faced  the  situ- 
ation. 

She  was  going  to  marry  Harvey.  She  was  com- 
mitted to  that.  And  she  loved  him;  not  as  he  caredr 
perhaps,  but  he  was  a  very  definite  part  of  her  life. 
Once  or  twice  when  he  had  been  detained  by  business 
she  had  missed  him,  had  put  in  a  lonely  and  most  un- 
happy evening. 

Sara  Lee  had  known  comparatively  few  men.  In 
that  small  and  simple  circle  of  hers,  with  its  tennis 
court  in  a  vacant  lot,  its  one  or  two  inexpensive  cars, 
its  picnics  and  porch  parties,  there  was  none  of  the 
usual  give  and  take  of  more  sophisticated  circles. 
Boys  and  girls  paired  off  rather  early,  and  remained 
paired  by  tacit  agreement;  there  was  comparatively 
little  shifting.  There  were  few  free  lances  among  the 
men,  and  none  among  the  girls.  When  she  was  seven- 
teen Harvey  had  made  it  known  unmistakably  that 
Sara  Lee  was  his.  and  no  trespassing.  And  for  two 
years  he  had  without  intentional  selfishness  kept  Sara 
Lee  for  himself. 

That  was  how  matters  stood  that  January  night 
when  Sara  Lee  went  upstairs  after  Harvey  had  gone 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      29 

and  read  Mabel's  letter,  with  Harvey's  photograph 
turned  to  the  wall.  Under  her  calm  exterior  a  little 
flame  of  rebellion  was  burning  in  her.  Harvey's  per- 
petual "  we,"  his  attitude  toward  the  war,  and  Mabel's 
letter,  with  what  it  opened  before  her,  had  set  the 
match  to  something  in  Sara  Lee  she  did  not  recognize 
—  a  strain  of  the  adventurer,  a  throw-back  to  some 
wandering  ancestor  perhaps.  But  more  than  anything 
it  had  set  fire  to  the  something  maternal  that  is  in  all 
good  women. 

Yet,  had  Aunt  Harriet  not  come  in  just  then,  the 
flame  might  have  died.  And  had  it  died  a  certain 
small  page  of  the  history  of  this  war  would  never  have 
been  written. 

Aunt  Harriet  came  in  hesitatingly.  She  wore  a 
black  wrapper,  and  her  face,  with  her  hair  drawn  back 
for  the  night,  looked  tight  and  old. 

"  Harvey  gone  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  I  thought  I'd  better  come  in.  There's  some- 
thing   I  can  tell  you  in  the  morning  if  you're 

tired." 

"  I'm  not  tired,"  said  Sara  Lee. 

Aunt  Harriet  sat  down  miserably  on  a  chair. 

"  I've  had  a  letter  from  Jennie,"  she  stated.  "  The 
girl's  gone,  and  the  children  have  whooping  cough. 
She'd  like  me  to  come  right  away." 

"  To  do  the  maid's  work !  "  said  Sara  Lee  indig- 
nantly. "  You  mustn't  do  it,  that's  all !  She  can  get 
somebody." 


30      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

But  Aunt  Harriet  was  firm.  She  was  not  a  fair- 
weather  friend,  and  since  Jennie  was  good  enough 
to  offer  her  a  home  she  felt  she  ought  to  go  at 
once. 

"  You'll  have  to  get  married  right  away,"  she  fin- 
ished. "  Goodness  knows  it's  time  enough !  For  two 
years  Harvey  has  been  barking  like  a  watchdog  in 
front  of  the  house  and  keeping  every  other  young  man 
away." 

Sara  Lee  smiled. 

"  He's  only  been  lying  on  the  doormat,  Aunt  Har- 
riet," she  observed.  "  I  don't  believe  he  knows  how 
to'bark." 

"  Oh,  he's  mild  enough.  He  may  change  after  mar- 
riage. Some  do.  But,"  she  added  hastily,  "  he'll  be  a 
good  husband.  He's  that  sort." 

Suddenly  something  that  had  been  taking  shape  in 
Sara  Lee's  small  head,  quite  unknown  to  her,  de- 
veloped identity  and  speech. 

"  But  I'm  not  going  to  marry  him  just  yet."  she 
said. 

Aunt  Harriet's  eyes  fell  on  the  photograph  with  its 
face  to  the  wall,  and  she  started. 

'  You  haven't  quarreled  with  him,  have  you?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not !  I  have  something  else  I  want 
to  do  first.  That's  all.  Aunt  Harriet,  I  want  to  go 
to  France." 

Aunt  Harriet  began  to  tremble,  and  Sara  Lee  went 
over  and  put  her  young  arms  about  her. 

"  Don't  look  like  that,"  she  said.     "  It's  only  for  a 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      31 

little  while.     I've  got  to  go.     I  just  have  to,  that's 
all!" 

"  Go  how  ?  "  demanded  Aunt  Harriet. 

"  I  don't  know.  I'll  find  some  way.  I've  had  a 
letter  from  Mabel.  Things  are  awful  over  there." 

"  And  how  will  you  help  them  ?  "  Her  face  worked 
nervously.  "  Is  it  going  to  help  for  you  to  be  shot? 
Or  carried  off  by  the  Germans?  "  The  atrocity  stories 
were  all  that  Aunt  Harriet  knew  of  the  war,  and  all, 
she  could  think  of  now.  "  You'll  come  back  with  your^ 
hands  cut  off." 

Sara  Lee  straightened  and  looked  out  where  between 
the  white  curtains  the  spire  of  the  Methodist  Church 
marked  the  east. 

"  I'm  going,"  she  said.     And  she  stood  there,  al 
ready  poised  for  flight. 

There  was  no  sleep  in  the  little  house  that  night 
Sara  Lee  could  hear  the  older  woman  moving  abou; 
in  her  lonely  bed,  where  the  spring  still  sagged  from 
Uncle  James'  heavy  form,  and  at  last  she  went  in  and 
crept  in  beside  her.  Toward  morning  Aunt  Harriet 
slept,  with  the  girl's  arm  across  her;  and  then  Sara  Lee 
went  back  to  her  room  and  tried  to  plan. 

She  had  a  little  money,  and  she  had  heard  that  liv- 
ing was  cheap  abroad.  She  could  get  across  then,  and 
perhaps  keep  herself.  But  she  muri.  do  more  than  that, 
to  justify  her  going.  She  must  get  money,  and  then 
decide  how  the  money  was  to  I  e  spent.  If  she  could 
only  talk  it  over  with  Uncle  James !  Or,  with  Harvey. 
Harvey  knew  about  business  and  money. 


32      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

But  she  dared  not  go  to  Harvey.  She  was  terribly 
frightened  when  she  even  thought  of  him.  There  \vas 
no  hope  of  making  him  understand ;  and  no  chance  of 
reasoning  with  him,  because,  to  be  frank,  she  had  no 
reasons.  She  had  only  instinct  —  instinct  and  a  great 
tenderness  toward  suffering.  No,  obviously  Harvey 
must  not  know  until  everything  was  arranged. 

That  morning  the  Methodist  Church  packed  a  barrel 
for  the  Belgians.  There  was  a  real  rite  of  placing  in 
it  Mrs.  Augustus  Gregory's  old  sealskin  coat,  now  a 
light  brown  and  badly  worn,  but  for  years  the  only  one 
in  the  neighborhood.  Various  familiar  articles  ap- 
peared, to  be  thrust  into  darkness,  only  to  emerge  in 
surroundings  never  dreamed  of  in  their  better  days  — 
the  little  Howard  boy's  first  trouser  suit;  the  clothing 
of  a  baby  that  had  never  lived ;  big  Joe  Hemmingway's 
dress  suit,  the  one  he  was  married  in  and  now  too  small 
for  him.  And  here  and  there  things  that  could  ill  be 
spared,  brought  in  and  offered  with  resolute  cheerful- 
ness. 

Sara  Lee  brought  some  of  Uncle  James'  things,  and 
was  at  once  set  to  work.  The  women  there  called  Sara 
Lee  capable,  but  it  was  to  take  other  surroundings  to 
bring  out  her  real  efficiency. 

And  it  was  when  bending  over  a  barrel,  while  round 
her  went  on  that  \.  (tying  talk  of  women  about  a  great 
calamity,  that  Sara  a  -ee  got  her  great  idea ;  and  later  on 
she  made  the  only  speech  of  her  life. 

That  evening  Harvey  went  home  in  a  quiet  glow  of 
happiness.  He  had  had  a  good  day.  And  he  had 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      33 

heard  of  a  little  house  that  would  exactly  suit  Sara. 
Lee  and  him.  He  did  not  notice  his  sister's  silence 
when  he  spoke  about  it.  He  was  absorbed,  manlike,  in 
his  plans. 

"  The  Leete  house,"  he  said  in  answer  to  her  per- 
functory question.  "  Will  Leete  has  lost  his  mind  and 
volunteered  for  the  ambulance  service  in  France. 
Mrs.  Leete  is  going  to  her  mother's." 

"  Maybe  he  feels  it's  his  duty.  He  can  drive  a  car, 
and  they  have  no  children." 

'*  Duty  nothing !  "  He  seemed  almost  unduly  irri- 
tated. "  He's  tired  of  the  commission  business,  that's 
all.  Y'ought  to  have  heard  the  fellows  in  the  office. 
Anyhow,  they  want  to  sub-let  the  house,  and  I'm  going 
to  t.'ike  Sara  Lee  there  to-night." 

His  sister  looked  at  him,  and  there  was  in  her  face 
something  of  the  expression  of  the  women  that  day  as 
they  packed  the  barrel.  But  she  said  nothing  until  he 
was  leaving  the  house  that  night.  Then  she  put  a  hand 
on  his  arm.  She  was  a  weary  little  woman,  older  than 
Harvey,  and  tired  with  many  children.  She  had  been 
gathering  up  small  overshoes  in  the  hall  and  he  had 
stopped  to  help  her. 

"  You  know,  Harvey,  Sara  Lee's  not I  al- 
ways think  she's  different,  somehow." 

"  Well,  I  guess  yes!     There's  nobody  like  her." 

"  You  can't  bully  her,  you  know." 

Harvey  stared  at  her  with  honestly  perplexed  eyes. 

"  Bully !  "  he  said.     "  What  on  earth  makes  you  say 


34      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

Then  he  laughed. 

"  Don't  you  worry,  Belle,"  he  said.  "  I  know  I'm 
a  fierce  and  domineering  person,  but  if  there's  any 
bullying  I  know  who'll  do  it." 

"  She's  not  like  the  other  girls  you  know,"  she  re- 
iterated rather  helplessly. 

"  Sure  she's  not !  But  she's  enough  like  them  to 
need  a  house  to  live  in.  And  if  she  isn't  crazy  about 
the  Leete  place  I'll  eat  it." 

He  banged  out  cheerfully,  whistling  as  he  went 
down  the  street.  He  stopped  whistling,  however,  at 
Sara  Lee's  door.  The  neighborhood  preserved  cer- 
tain traditions  as  to  a  house  of  mourning.  It  lowered 
its  voice  in  passing  and  made  its  calls  of  condolence  in 
dark  clothes  and  a  general  air  of  gloom.  Pianos  near 
by  were  played  only  with  the  windows  closed,  and  even 
the  milkman  leaving  his  bottles  walked  on  tiptoe  and 
presented  his  monthly  bill  solemnly. 

So  Harvey  stopped  whistling,  rang  the  bell  apolo- 
getically, and  —  faced  a  new  and  vivid  Sara  Lee, 
flushed  and  with  shining  eyes,  but  woefully  frightened. 

She  told  him  almost  at  once.  He  had  only  reached 
the  dining  room  of  the  Leete  house,  which  he  was  ex- 
plaining had  a  white  wainscoting,  when  she  interrupted 
him.  The  ladies  of  the  Methodist  Church  were  going 
to  collect  a  certain  amount  each  month  to  support  a 
soup  kitchen  as  near  the  Front  as  possible. 

"  Good  work !  "  said  Harvey  heartily.  "  I  suppose 
they  do  get  hungry,  poor  devils.  Now  about  the  din- 
ing room " 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      35 

"  Harvey  dear,"  Sara  Lee  broke  in,  "  I've  not  fin- 
ished. I  —  I'm  going  over  to  run  it." 

"You  are  not!" 

"  But  I  am !  It's  all  arranged.  It's  my  plan. 
They've  all  wanted  to  do  something  besides  giving 
clothes.  They  send  barrels,  and  they  never  hear  from 
them  again,  and  it's  hard  to  keep  interested.  But  with 
me  there,  writing  home  and  telling  them,  '  To-day  we 
served  soup  to  this  man,  and  that  man,  perhaps 
wounded.  And  —  and  that  sort  of  thing  —  don't  you 
see  how  interested  every  one  will  be?  Mrs.  Gregory 
has  promised  twenty-five  dollars  a  month,  and " 

"  You're  not  going,"  said  Harvey  in  a  flat  tone. 
"  That's  all.  Don't  talk  to  me  about  it." 

Sara  Lee  flushed  deeper  and  started  again,  but 
rather  hopelessly.  There  was  no  converting  a  man 
who  would  not  argue  or  reason,  who  based  every- 
thing on  flat  refusal. 

"  But  somebody  must  go,"  she  said  with  a  tighten- 
ing of  her  voice.  "  Here's  Mabel  Andrews'  letter. 
Read  it  and  you  will  understand." 

"  I  don't  want  to  read  it." 

Nevertheless  he  took  it  and  read  it.  He  read  slowly. 
He  did  nothing  quickly  except  assert  his  masculine 
domination.  He  had  all  the  faults  of  his  virtues ;  he 
was  as  slow  as  he  was  sure,  as  unimaginative  as  he  was 
faithful. 

He  read  it  and  gave  it  back  to  her. 

"  I  don't  think  you  mean  it,"  he  said.  "  I  give  you 
credit  for  too  much  sense.  Maybe  some  one  is  needed 


36      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

over  there.  I  guess  things  are  pretty  bad.  But  why 
should  you  make  it  your  affair?  There  are  about  a 
million  women  in  this  country  that  haven't  got  any- 
thing else  to  do.  Let  them  go." 

"  Some  of  them  will.     But  they're  afraid,  mostly." 

"Afraid!     My  God,  I  should  think  they  would  be 

afraid!     And  you're  asking  me  to  let  you  go  into 

danger,  to  put  off  our  wedding  while  you  wander  about 

over  there  with  a  million  men  and  no  women  and " 

"  You're  wrong,  Harvey  dear,"  said  Sara  Lee  in  a 
low  voice.  "  I  am  not  asking  you  at  all.  I  am  telling 
you  that  I  am  going." 

Sara  Lee's  leaving  made  an  enormous  stir  in  her 
small  community.  Opinion  was  divided.  She  was 
right  according  to  some;  she  was  mad  according  to 
others.  The  women  of  the  Methodist  Church,  finding 
a  real  field  of  activity,  stood  behind  her  solidly.  Guar- 
anties of  funds  came  in  in  a  steady  flow,  though  the 
amounts  were  small ;  and,  on  the  word  going  about  that 
she  was  to  start  a  soup  kitchen  for  the  wounded,  house- 
wives sent  in  directions  for  making  their  most  cher- 
ished soups. 

Sara  Lee,  going  to  a  land  where  the  meat  was  mostly 
horse  and  where  vegetables  were  scarce  and  limited  to 
potatoes,  Brussels  sprouts  and  cabbage,  found  herself 
the  possessor  of  recipes  for  making  such  sick-room 
dainties  as  mushroom  soup,  cream  of  asparagus,  clam 
broth  with  whipped  cream,  and  —  from  Mrs.  Gregory, 
the  wealthy  woman  of  the  church  —  green  turtle  and 
consomme. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      37 

She  was  very  busy  and  rather  sad.  She  was  help- 
ing Aunt  Harriet  to  close  the  house  and  getting  her 
small  wardrobe  in  order.  And  once  a  day  she  went  to 
a  school  of  languages  and  painfully  learned  from  a 
fierce  and  kindly  old  Frenchman  a  list  of  French  nouns 
and  prefixes  like  this :  Le  livre,  le  crayon,  la  plume, 
la  jcnetre,  and  so  on.  By  the  end  of  ten  days  she 
could  say:  "La  rose  sent-elle  bon?  " 

Considering  that  Harvey  came  every  night  and  ran 
the  gamut  of  the  emotions,  from  pleading  and  expostu- 
lation at  eight  o'clock  to  black  fury  at  ten,  when  he 
banged  out  of  the  house,  Sara  Lee  was  amazingly 
calm.  If  she  had  moments  of  weakness,  when  the  call 
from  overseas  was  less  insistent  than  the  call  for  peace 
and  protection  —  if  the  nightly  drawn  picture  of  the 
Leete  house,  with  tile  mantels  and  a  white  bathroom, 
sometimes  obtruded  itself  as  against  her  approaching 
homelessness,  Sara  Lee  made  no  sign. 

She  had  her  photograph  taken  for  her  passport,  and 
when  Harvey  refused  one  she  sent  it  to  him  by  mail, 
with  the  word  "  Please "  in  the  corner.  Harvey 
groaned  over  it,  and  got  it  out  at  night  and  scolded  it 
wildly;  and  then  slept  with  it  under  his  pillows,  when 
he  slept  at  all. 

Not  Sara  Lee,  and  certainly  not  Harvey,  knew  what 
was  calling  her.  And  even  later,  when  waves  of  home- 
sickness racked  her  with  wild  remorse,  she  knew  that 
she  had  had  to  go  and  that  she  could  not  return  until 
she  had  done  the  thing  for  which  she  had  been  sent, 
whatever  that  might  be. 


Ill 

THE  first  thing  that  struck  Sara  Lee  was  the  way 
she  was  saying  her  nightly  prayers  in  all  sorts  of 
odd  places.  In  trains  and  in  hotels  and,  after  sufficient 
interval,  in  the  steamer.  She  prayed  under  these  novel 
circumstances  to  be  made  a  better  girl,  and  to  do  a 
lot  of  good  over  there,  and  to  be  forgiven  for  hurting 
Harvey.  She  did  this  every  night,  and  then  got  into 
her  narrow  bed  and  studied  French  nouns  —  because 
she  had  decided  that  there  was  no  time  for  verbs  — 
and  numbers,  which  put  her  to  sleep. 

"  Un,  deux,  trois,  quatre,  cinq,"  Sara  Lee  would  be- 
gin, and  go  on,  rocking  gently  in  her  berth  as  the 
steamer  rolled.  "  Vingt,  vingt-et-un,  vingt-deux, 

trente,  trente-et-un "  Her  voice  would  die  away. 

The  book  on  the  floor  and  Harvey's  picture  on  the  tiny 
table,  Sara  Lee  would  sleep.  And  as  the  ship  trembled 
the  light  over  her  head  would  shine  on  Harvey's  ring, 
and  it  glistened  like  a  tear. 

One  thing  surprised  her  as  she  gradually  met  some 
of  her  fellow  passengers.  She  was  not  alone  on  her 
errand.  Others  there  were  on  board,  young  and  old 
women,  and  men,  too,  who  had  felt  the  call  of  mercy 
and  were  going,  as  ignorant  as  she,  to  help.  As  igno- 
rant, but  not  so  friendless.  Most  of  them  were  ac- 
credited somewhere.  They  had  definite  objectives. 
But  what  was  more  alarming  —  they  talked  in  big 

3Q 


4o      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

figures.  Great  organizations  were  behind  them.  She 
heard  of  the  rehabilitation  of  Belgium,  and  portable 
hospitals,  and  millions  of  dollars,  and  Red  Cross  trains. 

Not  once  did  Sara  Lee  hear  of  anything  so  humble 
as  a  soup  kitchen.  The  war  was  a  vast  thing,  they 
would  observe.  It  could  only  be  touched  by  great  or- 
ganizations. Individual  effort  was  negligible. 

Once  she  took  her  courage  in  her  hands. 

"  But  I  should  think,"  she  said,  "  that  even  great  or- 
ganizations depend  on  the  —  on  individual  efforts." 

The  portable  hospital  woman  turned  to  her  patron- 
izingly. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "  But  coordinated 
—  coordinated." 

It  is  hard  to  say  just  when  the  lights  went  down  on 
Sara  Lee's  quiet  stage  and  the  interlude  began.  Not 
on  the  steamer,  for  after  three  days  of  discouragement 
and  good  weather  they  struck  a  storm ;  and  Sara  Lee's 
fine  frenzy  died  for  a  time,  of  nausea.  She  did  not 
appear  again  until  the  boat  entered  the  Mersey,  a  pale 
and  shaken  angel  of  mercy,  not  at  all  sure  of  her  wings, 
and  most  terribly  homesick. 

That  night  Sara  Lee  made  a  friend,  one  that  Harvey 
would  have  approved  of,  an  elderly  Englishman  named 
Travers.  He  was  standing  by  the  rail  in  the  rain  look- 
ing out  at  the  blinking  signal  lights  on  both  sides  of 
the  river.  The  ship  for  the  first  time  had  abandoned 
its  policy  of  darkness  and  the  decks  were  bathed  in 
light. 

Overhead  the  yardarm  blinkers  were  signaling,  and 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE       41 

directly  over  Sara  Lee's  head  a  great  white  searchlight 
swept  the  water  ahead.  The  wind  was  blowing  a  gale, 
and  the  red  and  green  lights  of  the  pilot  boat  swung 
in  great  arcs  that  seemed  to  touch  the  waves  on  either 
side. 

Sara  Lee  stood  beside  Mr.  Travers,  for  companion- 
ship only.  He  had  preserved  a  typically  British  aloof- 
ness during  the  voyage,  and  he  had  never  spoken  to 
her.  But  there  was  something  forlorn  in  Sara  Lee 
that  night  as  she  clutched  her  hat  with  both  hands  and 
stared  out  at  the  shore  lights.  And  if  he  had  been 
silent  during  the  voyage  he  had  not  been  deaf.  So  he 
knew  why  almost  every  woman  on  the  ship  was  mak- 
ing the  voyage ;  but  he  knew  nothing  about  Sara  Lee. 

"  Bad  night,"  said  Mr.  Travers. 

"  I  was  wondering  what  they  are  trying  to  do  with 
that  little  boat." 

Mr.  Travers  concealed  the  surprise  of  a  man  who 
was  making  his  seventy-second  voyage. 

"That's  the  pilot  boat,"  he  explained.  "We  are 
picking  up  a  pilot." 

"  But,"  marveled  Sara  Lee  rather  breathlessly, 
*'  have  we  come  all  the  way  without  any  pilot  ?  " 

He  explained  that  to  her,  and  showed  her  a  few  mo- 
ments later  how  the  pilot  came  with  incredible  rapid- 
ity up  the  swaying  rope  ladder  and  over  the  side. 

To  be  honest,  he  had  been  watching  for  the  pilot 
boat,  not  to  see  what  to  Sara  Lee  was  the  thrilling 
progress  of  the  pilot  up  the  ladder,  but  to  get  the  news- 
paoers  he  would  bring  on  with  him.  It  is  perhaps  ex- 


42      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

planatory  of  the  way  things  went  for  Sara  Lee  from 
that  time  on  that  he  quite  forgot  his  newspapers. 

The  chairs  were  gone  from  the  decks,  preparatory 
to  the  morning  landing,  so  they  walked  about  and  Sara 
Lee  at  last  told  him  her  story  —  the  ladies  of  the  Meth- 
odist Church,  and  the  one  hundred  dollars  a  month  she 
was  to  have,   outside  of  her  traveling  expenses,   to 
found  and  keep  going  a  soup  kitchen  behind  the  lines. 
"A  hundred  dollars  a  month,"  he  said.     "That's 
twenty  pounds.     Humph !     Good  God !  " 
But  this  last  was  under  his  breath. 
Then  she  told  him  of  Mabel  Andrews'  letter,  and  at 
last  read  it  to  him.     He  listened  attentively.     "Of 
course,"  she  said  when  she  had  put  the  letter  back  into 
her  bag,  "  I  can't  feed  a  lot,  even  with  soup.     But  if  I 
only  help  a  few,  it's  worth  doing,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Very  much  worth  doing,"  he  said  gravely.  "  I 
suppose  you  are  not,  by  any  chance,  going  to  write  a 
weekly  article  for  one  of  your  newspapers  about  what 
you  are  doing?  " 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  it.     Do  you  think  I  should  ?  " 

Quite  unexpectedly  Mr.  Travers  patted  her  shoulder. 

"My  dear  child,"  he  said,  "now  and  then  I  find 

somebody  who  helps  to  revive  my   faith  in  human 

nature.     Thank  you." 

Sara  Lee  did  not  understand.  The  touch  on  the 
shoulder  had  made  her  think  suddenly  of  Uncle  James, 
and  her  chin  quivered. 

"  I'm  just  a  little  frightened,"  she  said  in  a  small 
voice. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      43 

"  Twenty  pounds !  "  repeated  Mr.  Travers  to  him- 
self. "  Twenty  pounds !"  And  aloud:  "  Of  course 
you  speak  French  ?  " 

"  Very  little.  I've  had  six  lessons,  and  I  can  count 
—  some." 

The  sense  of  unreality  which  the  twenty  pounds  had 
roused  in  Mr.  Travers'  cautious  British  mind  grew. 
No  money,  no  French,  no  objective,  just  a  great  human 
desire  to  be  useful  in  her  own  small  way  —  this  was  a 
new  type  to  him.  What  a  sporting  chance  this  frail 
bit  of  a  girl  was  taking!  And  he  noticed  now  some- 
thing that  had  escaped  him  before  —  a  dauntlessness, 
a  courage  of  the  spirit  rather  than  of  the  body,  that 
was  in  the  very  poise  of  her  head. 

"  I'm  not  afraid  about  the  language,"  she  was  say- 
ing. "  I  have  a  phrase  book.  And  a  hungry  man, 
maybe  sick  or  wounded,  can  understand  a  bowl  of  soup 
in  any  language,  I  should  think.  And  I  can  cook !  " 

It  was  a  perplexed  and  thoughtful  Mr.  Travers  who 
sipped  his  Scotch-and-soda  in  the  smoking  room  before 
retiring.  He  took  the  problem  to  bed  with  him  and 
woke  up  in  the  night  saying :  "  Twenty  pounds ! 
Good  God ! " 

In  the  morning  they  left  the  ship.  He  found  Sara 
Lee  among  the  K's,  waiting  to  have  her  passport  ex- 
amined, and  asked  her  where  she  was  stopping  in  Lon- 
don. She  had  read  somewhere  of  Claridge's  —  in  a 
novel  probably. 

"  I  shouldn't  advise  Claridge's,"  he  said,  reflecting 


44      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

rather  grimly  on  the  charges  of  that  very  exclusive 
hotel.  "  Suppose  you  let  me  make  a  suggestion." 

So  he  wrote  out  the  name  of  a  fine  old  English  house 
on  Trafalgar  Square,  where  she  could  stay  until  she 
went  to  France.  There  would  be  the  matter  of  a 
passport  to  cross  the  Channel.  It  might  take  a  day  or 
two.  Perhaps  he  could  help  her.  He  would  give 
himself  the  pleasure  of  calling  on  her  very  soon. 

Sara  Lee  got  on  the  train  and  rode  up  to  London. 
She  said  to  herself  over  and  over:  "This  is  Eng- 
land. I  am  really  in  England."  But  it  did  not  re- 
move the  sense  of  unreality.  Even  the  English  grass, 
bright  green  in  midwinter,  only  added  to  the  sense  of 
unreality. 

She  tried,  sitting  in  the  strange  train  with  its  small 
compartments,  to  think  of  Harvey.  She  looked  at  her 
ring  and  tried  to  recall  some  of  the  tender  things  he 
had  said  to  her.  But  Harvey  eluded  her.  She  could 
•not  hear  his  voice.  And  when  she  tried  to  see  him  it 
was  Harvey  of  the  wide  face  and  the  angry  eyes  of 
the  last  days  that  she  saw. 

Morley's  comforted  her.  The  .nan  at  the  door  had 
been  there  for  forty  years,  and  was  beyond  surprise. 
He  had  her  story  in  twenty-four  hours,  and  in  forty- 
•eight  he  was  her  slave.  The  elderly  chambermaid 
mothered  her,  and  failed  to  report  that  Sara  Lee  was 
doing  a  small  washing  in  her  room  and  had  pasted 
handkerchiefs  over  the  ancient  walnut  of  her  ward- 
robe. " 


45 


"  Going  over,  are  you?  "  she  said.  "  Dear  me,  what 
courage  you've  got,  miss !  They  tell  me  things  is  hor- 
rible over  there." 

"  That's  why  I'm  going,'*  replied  Sara  Lee,  and  in- 
sisted on  helping  to  make  up  the  bed. 

*'  It's  easier  when  two  do  it,"  she  said  casually. 

Mr.  Travers  put  in  a  fretful  twenty-four  hours  be- 
fore he  came  to  see  her.  He  lunched  at  Brooks',  and 
astounded  an  elderly  member  of  the  House  by  putting 
her  problem  to  him. 

V  A  young  girl  I  "  exclaimed  the  M.  P.  "  Why, 
deuce  take  it,  it's  no  place  for  a  young  girl." 

"  An  American,"  explained  Mr.  Travers  uncom- 
fortably. "  She's  perfectly  able  to  look  after  herselt." 

"  Probably  a  correspondent  in  disguise.  They'l)  gc 
to  any  lengths." 

;'  She's  not  a  correspondent. ': 

*'  Let  her  stay  in  Boulogne.  There's  work  there  in 
the  hospitals." 

"''  She's  not  a  nurse.  She's  a  —  well,  she's  a  cook. 
Or  so  she  says.'' 

The  M.  P.  stared  at  Mr.  Travers>  and  Mr.  1'raverr 
stared  back  defiantly. 

"  What  in  the  name  of  God  is  she  going  to  cook?  " 

"  Soup,"  said  Mr.  Travers  in  a  voice  of  suppressed 
irritation.  "  She's  got  a  little  money,  and  she  wants  to 
establish  a  soup  kitchen  behind  the  Belgian  trenches  on 
a  line  of  communication.  I  suppose,"  he  continued 
angrily,  "  even  you  will  admit  that  the  Belgian  Army 
needs  all  the  soup  it  can  get " 


46      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  I  don't  approve  of  women  near  the  lines." 

"  Neither  do  I.  But  I'm  exceedingly  glad  that  a 
few  of  them  have  the  courage  to  go  there." 

"  What's  she  going  to  make  soup  out  of  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  a  cooking  expert.  But  I  know  her  and 
I  fancy  she'll  manage." 

It  ended  by  the  M.  P.  agreeing  to  use  his  influence 
with  the  War  Office  to  get  Sara  Lee  to  France.  He 
was  very  unwilling.  The  spy  question  was  looming 
large  those  days.  Even  the  Red  Cross  had  unwittingly 
spread  its  protection  over  more  than  one  German  agent. 
The  lines  were  being  drawn  in. 

"  I  may  possibly  get  her  to  France.  I  don't  know, 
of  course,"  he  said  in  that  ungracious  tone  in  which  an 
Englishman  often  grants  a  favor  which  he  will  go 
to  any  amount  of  trouble  to  do.  "  After  that  it's  up 
to  her." 

Mr.  Travers  reflected  rather  grimly  that  after  that 
it  was  apparently  up  to  him. 

Sara  Lee  sat  in  her  room  at  Morley's  Hotel  and 
looked  out  at  the  life  of  London  —  policemen  with 
chin  straps ;  schoolboys  in  high  silk  hats  and  Eton  suits, 
the  hats  generally  in  disreputable  condition;  clerks 
dressed  as  men  at  home  dressed  for  Easter  Sunday 
church;  and  men  in  uniforms.  Only  a  fair  sprinkling 
of  these  last,  in  those  early  days.  On  the  first  after- 
noon there  was  a  military  funeral.  A  regiment  of 
Scots,  in  kilts,  came  swinging  down  from  the  church 
of  St.  Martin  in  the  Fields,  tall  and  wonderful  men, 
grave  and  very  sad.  Behind  them,  on  a  gun  carriage. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE       47 

was  the  body  of  their  officer,  with  the  British  flag  over 
the  casket  and  his  sword  and  cap  on  the  top. 

Sara  Lee  cried  bitterly.  It  was  not  until  they  had 
gone  that  she  remembered  that  Harvey  had  always 
called  the  Scots  men  in  women's  petticoats.  She  felt 
a  thrill  of  shame  for  him,  and  no  amount  of  looking  at 
his  picture  seemed  to  help. 

Mr.  Travers  called  the  second  afternoon  and  was 
received  by  August  at  the  door  as  an  old  friend. 

"  She's  waiting  in  there,"  he  said.  "  Very  nice 
young  lady,  sir.  Very  kind  to  everybody." 

Mr.  Travers  found  her  by  a  window  looking  out. 
There  was  a  recruiting  meeting  going  on  in  Trafalgar 
Square,  the  speakers  standing  on  the  monument. 
Now  and  then  there  was  a  cheer,  and  some  young  fel- 
low sheepishly  offered  himself.  Sara  Lee  was  having 
a.  mad  desire  to  go  over  and  offer  herself  too.  Be- 
cause, she  reflected,  she  had  been  in  London  almost  two 
days,  and  she  was  as  far  from  France  as  ever.  Not 
knowing,  of  course,  that  three  months  was  a  fair  *ime 
for  the  slow  methods  then  in  vogue. 

There  was  a  young  man  in  the  room,  but  Sara  Lee 
had  not  noticed  him.  He  was  a  tall,  very  blond  young 
man,  in  a  dark-blue  Belgian  uniform  with  a  quaint  cap 
which  allowed  a  gilt  tassel  to  drop  over  his  forehead. 
He  sat  on  a  sofa,  curling  up  the  ends-  of  a  very  small 
mustache,  his  legs,  in  cavalry  boots,  crossed  and  ex- 
tending a  surprising  distance  beyond  the  sofa. 

The  lights  were  up  now,  beyond  the  back  drop,  the 
stage  darkened.  A  new  scene  with  a  vengeance,  a 


48      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

scene  laid  in  strange  surroundings,  with  men,  whole 
men  and  wounded  men  and  spying  men  —  and  Sara 
Lee  and  this  young  Belgian,  whose  name  was  Henri, 
and  whose  other  name,  because  of  what  he  suffered 
and  what  he  did,  we  may  not  know. 


IV 

LTENRI  sat  on  his  sofa  and  watched  Sara  Lee. 

*•  •*  Also  he  shamelessly  listened  to  the  conversation, 
not  because  he  meant  to  be  an  eavesdropper  but  because 
he  liked  Sara  Lee's  voice.  He  had  expected  a  highly 
inflected  British  voice,  and  instead  here  was  something 
entirely  different  —  that  is,  Sara  Lee's  endeavor  to 
reconcile  the  English  "  a  "  with  her  normal  western 
Pennsylvania  pronunciation.  She  did  it  quite  unin- 
tentionally, but  she  had  a  good  ear  and  it  was  difficult, 
for  instance,  to  say  "  rather  "  when  Mr.  Travers  said 
"rawther." 

Henri  had  a  good  ear  too.  And  the  man  he  was 
waiting  for  did  not  come.  Also  he  had  been  to  school 
in  England  and  spoke  English  rather  better  than  most 
British.  So  he  heard  a  conversation  like  this,  the  gaps 
being  what  he  lost : 

MR.  TRAVERS  :  to  France,  anyhow.  After 

that 

SARA  LEE:  Awfully  sorry  to  be But  what 

shall  I  do  if  I  do  get  over?  The  chambermaid  up- 
stairs   very  difficult. 

MR.  TRAVERS.:  The  proper  and  sensible  thing 
is home. 

SARA  LEE  :  To  America  ?  But  I  haven't  done  any- 
thing yet. 

40 


5o      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

Henri  knew  that  she  was  an  American.  He  also 
realized  that  she  was  on  ihe  verge  of  tears.  He  glared 
at  poor  Mr.  Travers,  who  was  doing  his  best,  and 
lighted  a  French  cigarette. . 

"  There  must  be  some  way,"  said  Sara  Lee.  "  If 
they  need  help  —  and  I  have  read  you  Mabel  An- 
drews' letter  —  then  I  should  think  they'd  be  glad  to 
send  me." 

"  They  would  be,  of  course,"  he  said.  "  But  the 
fact  is  —  there's  been  some  trouble  about  spies, 
and " 

Henri's  eyes  narrowed. 

"  Spies !     And  they  think  I'm  a  spy?  " 

"  My  dear  child,"  remonstrated  Mr.  Travers, 
slightly  exasperated,  "  they're  not  thinking  about  you 
at  all.  The  War  Office  has  never  heard  of  you.  It's 
a  general  rule." 

Sara  Lee  was  not  placated. 

"  Let  them  cable  home  and  find  out  about  me.  I  can 
give  them  references.  Why,  all  sorts  of  prominent 
people  ai'3:  sending  me  money.  They  must  trust  me, 
or  they  wouldn't." 

There  were  no  gaps  for  Henri  now.  Sara  Lee  did 
not  care  who  heard  her,  and  even  Mr.  Travers  had 
slightly  raised  his  voice.  Henri  was  divided  between 
a  conviction  that  he  ought  to  go  away  and  a  mad  de- 
sire to  join  in  the  conversation,  greatly  augmented 
when  Sara  Lee  went  to  the  window  and  wiped  her 
eyes. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      51 

"If  you  only  spoke  French "  began  Mr.  Trav- 

ers. 

Sara  Lee  looked  over  her  shoulder.  "  But  of  course 
I  do !  "  she  said.  "  And  German  and  —  and  Yiddish,, 
and  all  sorts  of  languages.  Every  spy  does." 

Henri  smiled  appreciatively. 

It  might  all  have  ended  there  very  easily.  Sara. 
Lee  might  have  fought  the  War  Office  single-handed, 
and  won  out,  but  it  is  extremely  unlikely.  The  chances; 
at  that  moment  were  that  she  would  spend  endless  days 
and  hours  in  anterooms,  and  tell  her  story  and  make 
her  plea  a  hundred  times.  And  then  —  go  back  home 
to  Harvey  and  the  Leete  house,  and  after  a  time,  like 
Mrs.  Gregory,  speak  rather  too  often  of  "  the  time  I 
went  abroad." 

But  Sara  Lee  was  to  go  to  France,  and  even  further, 
to  the  fragment  of  unconquered  Belgium  that  re- 
mained. And  never  so  long  as  she  lived,  would  she  be 
able  to  forget  those  days  or  to  speak  of  them  easily. 
So  she  stood  by  the  window  trying  not  to  cry,  and  a 
little  donkey  drawing  a  coster's  cart  moved  out  in 
front  of  the  traffic  and  was  caught  by  a  motor  bus. 
There  was  only  time  for  the  picture  —  the  tiny  beast 
lying  there  and  her  owner  wringing  his  hands.  Such 
of  the  traffic  as  could  get  by  swerved  and  went  on. 
London  must  move,  though  a  thousand  willing  little 
beasts  lay  dying. 

And  Sara  moved  too.  One  moment  she  was  there 
by  the  window.  And  the  next  she  had  given  a  stifled 
cry  and  ran  out. 


52       THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"Bless  my  soul!"  said  Mr.  Travers,  and  got  up 
slowly. 

Henri  was  already  up  and  at  the  window.  What  he 
saw  was  Sara  Lee  making  her  way  through  the  stream 
of  vehicles,  taking  a  dozen  chances  for  her  life. 
Henri  waited  until  he  saw  her  crouched  by  the  donkey, 
its  head  on  her  knee.  Then  he,  too,  ran  out. 

That  is  how  Henri,  of  no  other  name  that  may  be 
given,  met  Sara  Lee  Kennedy,  of  Pennsylvania  —  un- 
der a  London  motor  bus.  And  that,  I  think,  will  be 
the  picture  he  carries  of  her  until  he  dies,  her  soft  eyes 
full  of  pity,  utterly  regardless  of  the  dirt  and  the  crowd 
and  an  expostulating  bobby,  with  that  grotesque  and 
agonized  head  on  her  knees. 

Henri  crawled  under  the  bus,  though  the  policeman 
was  extremely  anxious  to  keep  him  out.  And  he  ran 
a  practiced  eye  over  the  injured  donkey. 

"  It's  dying,"  said  Sara  Lee  with  white  lips. 

"  It  will  die,"  replied  Henri,  "  but  how  soon?  They 
are  very  strong,  these  little  beasts." 

The  conductor  of  the  bus  made  a  suggestion  then, 
one  that  froze  the  blood  round  Sara  Lee's  heart:  "  If 
you'll  move  away  and  let  us  run  over  it  proper  it'll  be 
out  of  its  trouble,  miss." 

Sara  Lee  raised  haggard  eyes  to  Henri. 

"Did  you  hear  that?"  she  said.  "They'd  do  it 
too!" 

The  total  result  of  a  conference  between  four  police- 
men, the  costermonger,  and,  by  that  time,  Mr.  Travers 
—  was  to  draw  the  animal  off  the  street  .and  into  the 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 


53 


square.  Sara  Lee  stuck  close  by.  So,  naturally,  did 
Henri.  And  when  the  hopeless  condition  of  Nellie, 
as  they  learned  she  was  named,  became  increasingly 
evident,  Henri  behaved  like  a  man  and  a  soldier. 

He  got  out  his  revolver  and  shot  her  in  the  brain. 

"  A  kindness,"  he  explained,  as  Sara  Lee  would  have 
caught  his  hand.  "  The  only  way,  mademoiselle." 

Mr.  Travers  had  the  usual  British  hatred  of  a  crowd 
and  publicity,  coupled  with  a  deadly  fear  of  getting  into 
the  papers,  except  through  an  occasional  letter  to  the 
Times.  He  vanished  just  before  the  shot,  and  might 
have  been  seen  moving  rapidly  through  the  square, 
turning  over  in  his  mind  the  difficulty  of  trying  to 
treat  young  American  girls  like  rational  human  beings. 

But  Henri  understood.  He  had  had  a  French 
mother,  and  there  is  a  leaven  of  French  blood  in  the 
American  temperament,  old  Huguenot,  some  of  it.  So 
Americans  love  beauty  and  obey  their  impulses  and  find 
life  good  to  do  things  rather  than  to  be  something  or 
other  more  or  less  important.  And  so  Henri  could 
quite  understand  how  Sara  Lee  had  forgotten  herself 
when  Mr.  Travers  could  not.  And  he  understood, 
also,  when  Sara  Lee,  having  composed  the  little  don- 
dey's  quiet  figure,  straightened  up  with  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"  It  was  very  dear  of  you  to  come  out,"  she  said. 
"  And  —  of  course  it  was  the  best  thing." 

She  held  out  her  hand.  The  crowd  had  gone. 
Traffic  was  moving  again,  racing  to  make  up  for  five 
lost  precious  moments.  The  square  was  dark,  that 


54      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

first  darkness  of  London,  when  air  raids  were  threat- 
ened but  had  not  yet  taken  place.  From  the  top  of  the 
Admiralty,  near  by,  a  flashlight  shot  up  into  the  air 
ana"  began  its  nightly  process  of  brushing  the  sky. 
Henri  took  her  hand  and  bent  over  it. 

"  You  are  very  brave,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  and 
touched  her  hand  with  his  lips. 

The  amazing  interlude  had  commenced. 


V 

YET  for  a  day  or  two  nothing  much  was  changed. 
Mr.  Travers  sent  Sara  Lee  a  note  that  he  was 
taking  up  her  problem  with  the  Foreign  Office ;  and  he 
did  indeed  make  an  attempt.     He  also  requested  his 
wife  to  ask  Sara  Lee  to  tea. 

Sara  Lee  was  extremely  nervous  on  the  day  she 
went.  She  wore  a  black  jacket  suit  with  a  white  col- 
lar, and  she  carried  Aunt  Harriet's  mink  furs,  Aunt 
Harriet  mourning  thoroughly  and  completely  in  black 
astrachan.  She  had  the  faculty  of  the  young  Ameri- 
can girl  of  looking  smart  without  much  expense,  and 
she  appeared  absurdly  young. 

She  followed  the  neat  maid  up  a  wide  staircase  to 
a  door  with  a  screen  just  inside,  and  heard  her  name 
announced  for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  Sara  Lee  took 
a  long  breath  and  went  inside,  to  a  most  discouraging 
half  hour. 

Mr.  Travers  was  on  the  hearth  rug.  Mrs.  Travers 
was  in  a  chair,  a  portly  woman'  with  a  not  unkindly 
face,  but  the  brusque  manner  many  Englishwomen  ac- 
quire after  forty.  She  held  Sara  Lee's  hand  and  gave 
her  a  complete  if  smiling  inspection. 

"  And  it  is  you  who  are  moving  heaven  and  earth  to 
get  to  the  Front !  You  —  child !  " 

Sara  Lee's  heart  fell,  but  she  smiled  also. 

"  But  I  am  older  than  I  look,"  she  said.  "  And  I 
am  very  strong." 

55 


50      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

Mrs.  Travers  looked  helplessly  at  her  husband, 
•while  she  rang  the  bell  for  tea.  That  was  another 
thing  Sara  Lee  had  read  about  but  never  seen  —  that 
ringing  for  tea.  At  home  no  one  served  afternoon 
tea;  but  at  a  party,  when  refreshments  were  coming, 
the  hostess  slipped,  out  to  the  kitchen  and  gave  a  whis- 
pered order  or  two. 

"  I  shall  be  frank  with  you,"  said  Mrs.  Travers.  "  I 
think  it  quite  impossible.  It  is  not  getting  you  over. 
That  might  be  done.  And  of  course  there  are  women 
over  there  —  young  ones  too.  But  the  army  objects 
very  seriously  to  their  being  in  danger.  And  of 

course  one  never  knows "  Her  voice  trailed  off 

vaguely.  She  implied,  however,  that  what  one  never 
knows  was  best  unknown. 

"  I  have  a  niece  over  there,"  she  said  as  the  tea 
tray  came  in.  "  Her  mother  was  fool  enough  to  let 
her  go.  Now  they  can't  get  her  back." 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Sara  Lee.  "Can't  they  find 
her?" 

"  She  won't  come.  Little  idiot !  She's  in  Paris, 
however.  I  daresay  she  is  safe  enough." 

Mrs.  Travers  made  the  tea  thoughtfully.  So  far 
Mr.  Travers  had  hardly  spoken,  but  he  cheered  in  true 
British  fashion  at  the  sight  of  the  tea.  Sara  Lee, 
exceedingly  curious  as  to  the  purpose  of  a  very  small 
stand  somewhat  resembling  a  piano  stool,  which  the 
maid  had  placed  at  her  knee,  learned  that  it  was  to 
hold  her  muffin  plate. 

"  And  now,"  said  Mr.  Travers,  "  suppose  we  come 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      57 

to  the  point.  There  doesn't  seem  to  be  a  chance  to 
get  you  over,  my  child.  Same  answer  everywhere. 
Place  is  full  of  untrained  women.  Spies  have  been 
using'  Red  Cross  passes.  Result  is  that  all  the  lines 
are  drawn  as  tight  as  possible." 

Sara  Lee  stared  at  him  with  wide  eyes. 

"  But  I  can't  go  back,"  she  said.  "I  —  well,  I  just 
can't.  They're  raising  the  money  for  me,  and  all  sorts 
of  people  are  giving  things.  A  —  a  friend  of  mine  is 
baking  cakes  and  sending  on  the  money.  She  has  three 
children,  and ' 

She  gulped. 

"  I  thought  everybody  wanted  to  get  help  to  the  Bel- 
gians," she  said. 

A  slightly  grim  smile  showed  itself  on  Mrs.  Travers' 
face. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  don't  understand.  It  is  you  we 
want  to  help.  Neither  Mr.  Travers  nor  I  feel  that  a 
girl  so  young  as  you,  and  alone,  has  any  place  near  the 
firing  line.  And  that,  I  fancy,  is  where  you  wish  to 
go.  As  to  helping  the  Belgians,  we  have  four  in  the 
house  now.  They  do  not  belong  to  the  same  social 
circles,  so  they  prefer  tea  in  their  own  rooms.  You 
are  quite  right  about  their  needing  help  too.  They 
cannot  even  make  up  their  own  beds." 

"  They  are  not  all  like  that,"  broke  in  Mr.  Travers 
hastily. 

"  Of  course  not.  But  I  merely  think  that  Miss  — 
er  —  Kennedy  should  know  both  sides  of  the  picture." 

Somewhat  later  Sara  Lee  was  ushered  downstairs 


58      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

by  the  neat  maid,  who  stood  on  the  steps  and  blew  a 
whistle  for  a  taxi  —  Sara  Lee  had  come  in  a  bus.  She 
carried  in  her  hand  the  address  of  a  Belgian  commis- 
sion of  relief  at  the  Savoy  Hotel,  and  m  her  heart.  i:'or 
the  first  time,  a  doubt  of  her  errand.  She  gave  the 
Savoy  address  mechanically  and,  huddled  in  a  corner, 
gave  way  to  wild  and  fearful  misgivings. 

Coming  up  she  had  sat  on  top  of  the  bus  and  watched 
with  wide  curious  eyes  the  strange  traffic  of  London. 
The  park  had  fascinated  her  —  the  little  groups  of 
drilling  men  in  khaki,  the  mellow  tones  of  a  bugle,  and 
here  and  there  on  the  bridle  paths  well-groomed  men 
and  women  on  horseback,  as  clean-cut  as  the  horses 
they  rode,  and  on  the  surface  as  careless  of  what  was 
happening  across  the  Channel.  But  she  saw  nothing 
now.  She  sat  back  and  twisted  Harvey's  ring  on  her 
finger,  and  saw  herself  going  back,  her  work  undone, 
her  faith  in  herself  shattered.  And  —  Harvey's  arms 
and  the  Leete  house  ready  to  receive  her. 

However,  a  ray  of  hope  opened  for  her  at  the  Savoy 
• — nbt  much,  a  prospect. 

The  Savoy  was  crowded.  Men  in  uniform,  a 
sprinkling  of  anxious-faced  wives  and  daughters,  and 
more  than  a  sprinkling  of  gaily  dressed  and  painted 
women,  rilled  the  lobby  or  made  their  way  slowly  up 
and  down  the  staircase.  It  was  all  so  utterly  different 
from  what  she  had  expected  —  so  bright,  so  full  of 
life.  These  well-fed  people  —  they  oeemed  happy 
enough.  Were  they  all  wrong-  back  home  ?  Was  the 
war  the  ghastly  thing:  they  thought  it  ? 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE       59 

Long  months  afterward  Sara  Lee  was  to  learn  that 
the  Savoy  was  not  London.  She  was  to  learn  other 
things  —  that  America  knew  more,  through  a  free 
press,  of  war  conditions  than  did  England.  And  she 
was  to  learn  what  never  ceased  to  surprise  her  —  the 
sporting  instinct  of  the  British  which  made  their  early 
slogan  "  Business  as  usual."  Business  and  pleasure 
—  but  only  on  the  surface.  Underneath  was  a  dogged 
and  obstinate  determination  to  make  up  as  soon  as 
possible  for  the  humiliation  of  the  early  days  of  the 
war. 

Those  were  the  transition  days  in  England.  The 
people  were  slowly  awaking  to  the  magnitude  of  the 
thing  that  was  happening  to  them.  Certain  elements 
of  the  press,  long  under  political  dominion,  were  pre- 
paring to  come  out  for  a  coalition  ministry.  The  ques- 
tion of  high-explosive  shells  as  against  shrapnel  was 
bitterly  fought,  some  of  the  men  at  home  standing  fast 
for  shrapnel,  as  valuable  against  German  artillery  as 
a  garden  hose.  Men  coming  back  from  the  Front  were 
pleading  for  real  help,  not  men  only,  not  Red  Cross, 
not  food  and  supplies,  but  for  something  more  compe- 
tent than  mere  man  power  to  hold  back  the  deluge. 

But  over  it  all  was  that  surface  cheerfulness,  that 
best-foot-forward  attitude  of  London.  And  Sara  Lee 
saw  only  that,  and  lost  faith.  She  had  come  far  to 
help.  But  here  was  food  in  plenty  and  bands  playing 
and  smiling  men  in  uniform  drinking  tea  and  playing 
for  a  little.  That,  too,  Sara  Lee  was  to  understand 
later;  but  just  then  she  did  not.  At  home  there  was 


6o      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

more  surface  depression.  The  atrocities,  the  plight  of 
the  Belgians,  the  honor  list  in  the  Illustrated  London 
News  —  that  was  the  war  to  Sara  Lee.  And  here ! 

But  later  on,  down  in  a  crowded  dark  little  room, 
things  were  different.  She  was  one  of  a  long  line, 
mostly  women.  They  were  unhappy  and  desolate 
enough,  God  knows.  They  sat  or  stood  with  a  sort 
of  weary  resignation.  Now  and  then  a  short  heavy 
man  with  an  upcurled  mustache  came  out  and  took 
in  one  or  two.  The  door  closed.  And  overhead  the 
band  played  monotonously. 

It  was  after  seven  when  Sara  Lee's  turn  came.  The 
heavy-set  man  spoke  to  her  in  French,  but  he  failed  to 
use  a  single  one  of  the  words  she  nad  memorized. 

"  Don't  you  speak  any  English  ? ;:  she  asked  help- 
lessly. 

"I  do ;  but  not  much,"  he  replied.  Though  his 
French  had  been  rapid  he  spoke  English  slowly. 
"  How  can  we  serve  you,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  any  assistance,  i  —  i  want  tc  nelp, 
if  I  can." 

"Here?" 

"  In  France.     Or  Belgium." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  We  have  many  offers  of  help.  What  we  need, 
mademoiselle,  is  not  workers.  We  have,  at  our  base 
hospital,  already  many  English  nurses." 

"  I  am  not  a  nurse." 

"  I  am  sorry.  The  whole  world  is  sorry  for  Bel- 
gium, and  many  would  work.  What  we  need  " —  he 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      61 

shrugged  his  shoulders  again  — "  is  food,  clothing,  sup- 
plies for  our  brave  little  soldiers." 

Sara  Lee  looked  extremely  small  and  young.  The 
Belgian  sat  down  on  a  chair  and  surveyed  her  care- 
fully. 

"You  English  are  doing  a  —  a  fine  work  for  us," 
he  observed.  "  We  are  grateful.  But  of  course  the  " 
—  he  hesitated  — "  the  pulling  up  of  an  entire  people 
• —  it  is  colossal." 

"  But  I  am  not  English,"  said  Sara  Lee.  "  And  I 
have  a  little  money.  I  want  to  make  soup  for  your 
wounded  men  at  a  railway  station  or  —  any  place.  I 
can  make  good  soup.  And  I  shall  have  money  each 
month  to  buy  what  I  need." 

Only  then  was  Sara  Lee  admitted  to  the  crowded  lit- 
tle room. 

Long  afterward,  when  the  lights  behind  the  back 
drop  had  gone  down  and  Sara  Lee  was  back  again  in 
her  familiar  setting,  one  of  the  clearest  pictures  she 
retained  of  that  amazing  interlude  was  of  that  crowded 
little  room  in  the  Savoy,  its  single  littered  desk,  its  two 
typewriters  creating  an  incredible  din,  a  large  gentle- 
man in  a  dark-blue  military  cape  seeming  to  fill  the 
room.  And  in  corners  and  off  stage,  so  to  speak,  per- 
haps a  half  dozen  men,  watching  her  curiously. 

The  conversation  was  in  French,  and  Sara  Lee's 
acquaintance  of  the  passage  acted  as  interpreter.  It 
was  only  when  Sara  Lee  found  that  a  considerable 
discussion  was  going  on  in  which  she  had  no  part  that 
she  looked  round  and  saw  her  friend  of  two  nights  be- 


62      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

fore  and  of  the  little  donkey.  He  was  watching  her 
intently,  and  when  he  caught  her  eye  he  bowed. 

Now  men,  in  Sara  Lee's  mind,  had  until  now  been 
divided  into  the  ones  at  home,  one's  own  kind,  the 
sort  who  married  one's  friends  or  oneself,  the  kind 
who  called  their  wives  "  mother  "  after  the  first  babv 
came,  and  were  easily  understood,  plain  men,  decent 
and  God-fearing  and  self-respecting;  and  the  men  of 
that  world  outside  America,  who  were  foreigners. 
One  might  like  foreigners,  but  they  were  outsiders. 

So  there  was  no  self-consciousness  in  Sara  Lee's 
bow  and  smile.  Later  on  Henri  was  to  find  that  lack 
of  self  and  sex  consciousness  one  of  the  maddening 
mysteries  about  Sara  Lee.  Perhaps  he  never  quite 
understood  it.  But  always  he  respected  it. 

More  conversation,  in  an  increasing  staccato. 
Short  contributions  from  the  men  crowded  into  cor- 
ners. Frenzied  beating  of  the  typewriting  machines, 
and  overhead  and  far  away  the  band.  There  was  no 
air  in  the  room.  Sara  Lee  was  to  find  out  a  great 
deal  later  on  about  the  contempt  of  the  Belgians  for 
air.  She  loosened  Aunt  Harriet's  neckpiece. 

So  far  Henri  had  not  joined  in  the  discussion.  But 
now  he  came  forward  and  spoke.  Also,  having  fin- 
ished, he  interpreted  to  Sara  Lee. 

"  They  are  most  grateful,"  he  explained.  "  It  is  a 
• — a  practical  idea,  mademoiselle.  If  you  were  in  Bel- 
gium " — he  smiled  rather  mirthlessly — "  if  you  were 
already  in  the  very  small  part  of  Belgium  remaining 
to  us,  we  could  place  you  very  usefully.  But  —  the 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      63 

British  War  Office  is  most  careful,  just  now.  You 
understand  —  there  are  reasons." 

Sara  Lee  flushed  indignantly. 

"They  can  watch  me  if  they  want  to,"  she  said. 
"What  trouble  can  I  make?  I've  only  just  landed. 
You  —  you'd  have  to  go  a  good  ways  to  find  any  one 
who  knows  less  than  I  do  about  the  war." 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  that,"  he  said,  unconscious 

of  offense.  "  But  the  War  Office "  He  held  out 

his  hands. 

Sara  Lee,  who  had  already  caught  the  British  "  a  " 
and  was  rather  overdoing  it,  had  a  wild  impulse  to 
make  the  same  gesture.  It  meant  so  much. 

More  conversation.  Evidently  more  difficulties  — 
but  with  Henri  now  holding  the  center  of  the  stage  and 
speaking  rapidly.  The  heavy-set  man  retired  and  read 
letters  under  an  electric  lamp.  The  band  upstairs  was 
having  dinner.  And  Henri  argued  and  wrangled. 
He  was  quite  passionate.  The  man  in  the  military 
cape  listened  and  smiled.  And  at  last  he  nodded. 

Henri  turned  to  Sara  Lee. 

"  You  Americans  are  all  brave,"  he  said.  "  You 
like  —  what  is  it  you  say  ?  —  taking  a  chance,  I  think. 
Would  you  care  to  take  such  a  chance  ?  " 

''  What  sort  of  a  chance?  " 

"  May  I  visit  you  this  evening  at  your  hotel  ?  " 

Just  for  an  instant  Sara  Lee  hesitated.  There  was 
Harvey  at  home.  He  would  not  like  her  receiving  a 
call  from  any  man.  And  Harvey  did  not  like  foreign- 
ers. He  always  said  they  had  no  respect  for  women. 


64      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

It  struck  her  suddenly  what  Harvey  would  call  Henri's 
bowing  and  his  kissing  her  hand,  and  his  passionate 
gesticulations  when  he  was  excited.  He  would  call  it 
all  tomfool  nonsense. 

And  she  recalled  his  final  words,  his  arms  so  close 
about  her  that  she  could  hardly  breathe,  his  voice  husky 
with  emotion. 

"  Just  let  me  hear  of  any  of  those  foreigners  bother- 
ing you,"  he  said,  "  and  I'll  go  over  and  wipe  out  the 
whole  damned  nation." 

It  had  not  sounded  funny  then.  It  was  not  funny 
now. 

"  Please  come,"  said  Sara  Lee  in  a  small  voice. 

The  other  gentlemen  bowed  profoundly.  Sara  Lee, 
rather  at  a  loss,  gave  them  a  friendly  smile  that  in- 
cluded them  all.  And  then  she  and  Henri  were  walk- 
ing up  the  stairs  and  to  the  entrance,  Henri's  tall  figure 
the  target  for  many  women'0  eyes.  He,  however,  saw 
no  one  but  Sara  Lee. 

Henri,  too,  called  a  taxicab.  Every  one  in  London 
seemed  to  ride  in  taxis.  And  he  bent  over  her  hand, 
once  she  was  in  the  car,  but  he  did  not  kiss  it. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you,  what  you  are  doing,"  he 
said.  "  But,  then,  you  Americans  are  all  kind.  And 
wonderful." 

Back  at  Morley's  Hotel  Sara  Lee  had  a  short  con- 
versation with  Harvey's  picture. 

"  You  are  entirely  wrong,  dear,"  she  said.  She  was 
brushing  her  hair  at  the  time,  and  it  is  rather  a  pity 
that  it  was  a  profile  picture  and  that  Harvey's  pictured 


eyes  were  looking  off  into  space  —  that  is,  a  piece  of 
white  canvas  on  a  frame,  used  by  photographers  to  re- 
flect the  light  into  the  eyes.  For  Sara  Lee  with  her 
hair  down  was  even  lovelier  than  with  it  up.  "  You 
were  wrong.  They  are  different,  but  they  are  kind 
and  polite.  And  very,  very  respectful.  And  he  is 
coming  on  business." 

She  intended  at  first  to  make  no  change  in  her  frock. 
After  all,  it  was  not  a  social  call,  and  if  she  did  not 
dress  it  would  put  things  on  the  right  footing. 

But  slipping  along  the  corridor  after  her  bath,  clad 
in  a  kimono  and  slippers  and  extremely  nervous,  she 
encountered  a  young  woman  on  her  way  to  dinner, 
and  she  was  dressed  in  that  combination  of  street  skirt 
and  evening  blouse  that  some  Englishwomen  from  the 
outlying  districts  still  affect.  And  Sara  Lee  thereupon 
•decided  to  dress.  She  called  in  the  elderly  maid,  who 
was  already  her  slave,  and  together  they  went  over  her 
clothes. 

It  was  the  maid,  perhaps,  then  who  brought  into 
Sara  Lee's  life  the  strange  and  mad  infatuation  for 
her  that  was  gradually  to  become  a  dominant  issue  in 
the  next  few  months.  For  the  maid  chose  a  white 
dress,  a  soft  and  young  affair  in  which  Sara  Lee  looked 
like  the  heart  of  a  rose. 

"  I  always  like  to  see  a  young  lady  in  white,  miss," 
said  the  maid.  "  Especially  when  there's  a  healthy 
skin." 

So  Sara  Lee  ate  her  dinner  alone,  such  a  dinner 
as  a  healthy  skin  and  body  demanded.  And  ahe 


66      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

watched  tall  young  Englishwomen  with  fine  shoulders 
go  out  with  English  officers  in  khaki,  and  listened  to  a 
babel  of  high  English  voices,  and  —  felt  extremely 
alone  and  very  subdued. 

Henri  came  rather  late.  It  was  one  of  the  things 
she  was  to  learn  about  him  later  —  that  he  was  fre- 
quently late.  It  was  only  long  afterward  that  she 
realized  that  such  time  as  he  spent  with  her  was  gained 
only  at  the  cost  of  almost  superhuman  effort.  But 
that  was  when  she  knew  Henri's  story,  and  his  work. 
She  waited  for  him  in  the  reception  room,  where  a  man 
and  a  woman  were  having  coffee  and  talking  in  a 
strange  tongue.  Henri  found  her  there,  at  something 
before  nine,  rather  downcast  and  worried,  and  debat- 
ing about  going  up  to  bed.  She  looked  up,  to  find  him 
bowing  before  her. 

"  I  thought  you  were  not  coming,"  she  said. 

"I?  Not  come?  But  I  had  said  that  I  would 
come,  mademoiselle.  I  may  sit  down?  " 

Sara  Lee  moved  over  on  the  velvet  sofa,  and  Henri 
lowered  his  long  body  onto  it.  Lowered  his  voice,  too, 
for  the  man  and  woman  were  staring  at  him. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  didn't  quite  understand  about  this 
afternoon,"  began  Sara  Lee.  "  You  spoke  about  tak- 
ing a  chance.  I  am  not  afraid  of  danger,  if  that  is 
what  you  mean." 

"  That,  and  a  little  more,  mademoiselle,"  said  Henri. 
"  But  —  now  that  I  am  here  I  do  not  know." 

His  eyes  were  keen.  Sara  Lee  had  suddenly  a 
strange  feeling  that  he  was  watching  the  couple  who 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      67 

talked  over  their  coffee,  and  that,  oddly  enough,  the 
couple  were  watching  him.  Yet  he  was  apparently 
giving  his  undivided  attention  to  her. 

"  Have  you  walked  any  to-day?  "  he  asked  her  un- 
expectedly. 

Sara  Lee  remembered  the  bus,  and,  with  some  bit- 
terness, the  two  taxis. 

"  I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  walk,"  she  said. 

"  But  you  should  walk,"  he  said.  "I  —  will  you 
walk  with  me?  Just  about  the  square,  for  air?" 
And  in  a  lower  tone :  "  It  is  not  necessary  that  those 
two  should  know  the  plan,  mademoiselle." 

"  I'll  get  my  coat  and  hat,"  Sara  Lee  said,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  do  so  in  a  brisk  and  businesslike  fashioa 
When  she  came  down  Henri  was  emerging  from  the 
telephone  booth.  His  face  was  impassive.  And 
again  wnen  in  time  Sara  Lee  was  to  know  Henri's 
face  better  than  she  had  ever  known  Harvey's,  she  was 
to  learn  that  the  masklike  look  he  sometimes  wore 
meant  danger  —  for  somebody. 

They  went  out  without  further  speech  into  the  clear 
cold  night.  Henri,  as  if  from  custom,  threw  his  head 
back  and  scanned  the  sky.  Then  they  went  on  and 
crossed  into  the  square. 

"  The  plan,"  Henri  began  abruptly,  "  i^  this :  You 
will  be  provided  to-morrow  with  a  passport  to  Bou- 
logne. You  will,  if  you  agree,  take  the  midnight  train 
for  Folkestone.  At  the  railway  station  here  you  will 
be  searched.  At  Folkestone  a  board,  sitting  in  an  of- 
fice on  the  quay,  will  examine  your  passport." 


68      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"Does  any  one  in  Boulogne  speak  English?"  Sara 
Lee  inquired  nervously.  Somehow  that  babel  of 
French  at  the  Savoy  had  frightened  her.  Her  little 
phrase  book  seemed  pitifully  inadequate  for  the  great 
things  in  her  mind. 

"  That  hardly  matters,"  said  Henri,  smiling  faintly. 
"  Because  I  think  you  shall  not  go  to  Boulogne." 

"  Not  go !  "  She  stopped  dead,  under  the  monu- 
ment, and  looked  up  at  him. 

"  The  place  for  you  to  go,  to  start  from,  is  Calais," 
Henri  explained.  He  paused,  to  let  pass  two  lovers, 
a  man  in  khaki  and  a  girl.  "  But  Calais  is  difficult. 
It  is  under  martial  law  —  a  closed  city.  From  Bou- 
logne to  Calais  would  be  perhaps  impossible." 

Sara  Lee  was  American  and  her  methods  were 
direct. 

"  How  can  I  get  to  Calais  ?  " 

"  Will  you  take  the  chance  I  spoke  of?" 

"  For  goodness'  sake,"  said  Sara  Lee  in  an  exas- 
perated tone,  "  how  can  I  tell  you  until  I  know  what 
it  is?" 

Henri  told  her.  He  even,  standing  under  a  street 
lamp,  drew  a  small  sketch  for  her,  to  make  it  clear. 
Sara  Lee  stood  close,  watching  him,  and  some  of  the 
lines  were  not  as  steady  as  they  might  have  been.  And 
in  the  midst  of  it  he  suddenly  stopped. 

"  Do  you  know  what  it  means  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Yes,  of  course." 

"  And  you  know  what  date  this  is?  " 

"  The  eighteenth  of  February." 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE       69 

But  he  saw,  after  all,  that  she  did  not  entirely  under- 
stand. 

"  To-night,  this  eighteenth  of  February,  the  Ger- 
mans commence  a  blockade  of  this  coast.  No  vessels, 
if  they  can  prevent  them,  will  leave  the  harbors;  or  if 
they  do,  none  shall  reach  the  other  side !  " 

"  Oh !  "  said  Sara  Lee  blankly. 

"  We  are  eager  to  do  as  you  wish,  mademoiselle. 
But  " —  he  commenced  slowly  to  tear  up  the  sketch  — 
"  it  is  too  dangerous.  You  are  too  young.  If  any- 
thing should  go  wrong  and  I  had No.  We  will 

find  another  way." 

He  put  the  fragments  of  the  sketch  in  his  pocket. 

"How  long  is  this  blockade  to  last?"  Sara  Lee 
•asked  out  of  bitter  disappointment 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Who  can  say  ?     A  week !     A  year !     Not  at  all !  " 

"  Then,"  said  Sara  Lee  with  calm  deliberation,  "  you 
might  as  well  get  out  your  pencil  and  draw  another 
picture  —  because  I'm  going," 

Far  enough  away  now,  the  little  house  at  home  and 
the  peace  that  dwelt  therein;  and  Harvey ', . and  the 
small  white  bedroom ;  and  the  daily  round  of  quiet 
duties.  Sara  Lee  had  set  her  face  toward  the  east, 
and  the  land  of  dying  men.  And  as  Henri  looked 
down  at  her  she  had  again  that  poised  and  eager  look, 
almost  of  flight,  that  had  brought  into  Harvey's  love 
for  her  just  a  touch  of  fear. 


VI 

SARA  LEE  KENNEDY  was  up  at  dawn  the  next 
morning.  There  was  a  very  serious  matter  to  de- 
cide, for  Henri's  plan  had  included  only  such  hand 
luggage  as  she  herself  could  carry. 

Sara  Lee  carefully  laid  out  on  the  bed  such  articles 
as  she  could  not  possibly  do  without,  and  was  able  to 
pack  into  her  suitcase  less  than  a  fourth  of  them.  She 
had  fortunately  brought  a  soft  wool  sweater,  which 
required  little  room.  Undergarments,  several  blouses, 
the  sweater  and  a  pair  of  heavy  shoes  —  that  was  her 
equipment,  plus  such  small  toilet  outfit  as  is  necessary 
when  a  young  woman  uses  no  make-up  and  regards 
cold  cream  only  as  a  remedy  for  chapped  hands. 

The  maid  found  her  in  rather  a  dismal  mood. 

"  Going  across,  miss !  "  she  said.     "  Fancy  that !  " 

"  It's  a  secret,"  cautioned  Sara  Lee.  "  I  am  really 
not  sure  I  am  going.  I  am  only  trying  to  go." 

The  maid,  who  found  Sara  Lee  and  the  picture  of 
Harvey  on  her  dressing  table  both  romantic  and  ap- 
pealing, offered  to  pack.  From  the  first  moment  it 
was  evident  that  she  meant  to  include  the  white  dress. 
Indeed  she  packed  it  first. 

"  You  never  know  what's  going  to  happen  over 
there,"  she  asserted.  "  They  do  say  that  royalties  are 
everywhere,  going  about  like  common  people.  You'd 
better  have  a  good  frock  with  you." 

She  had  an  air  of  subdued  excitement,  and  after  she 

71 


72      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

had  established  the  fact  that  not  only  the  white  frock 
but  slippers  and  hose  also  would  go  in  she  went  to  the 
door  and  glanced  up  and  down  the  passage.  Then  she 
closed  the  door. 

"  There  was  queer  goings-on  here  last  night,  miss," 
she  said  cautiously.  "  Spies!  " 

"  Oh,  no !  "  cried  Sara  Lee. 

"  Spies,"  she  repeated.  "  A  man  and  a  woman, 
pretending  to  be  Belgian  refugees.  They  took  them 
away  at  daylight.  I  expect  by  now  they've  been  shot." 

Sara  Lee  ate  very  little  breakfast  that  morning. 
All  through  England  it  was  confidently  believed  that 
spies  were  shot  on  discovery,  a  theory  that  has  been 
persistent  —  and  false,  save  at  the  battle  line  —  since 
the  beginning  of  the  war.  And  Henri's  plan  assumed 
new  proportions.  Suppose  she  made  her  attempt  and 
failed  ?  Suppose  they  took  her  for  a  spy,  and  that  to- 
morrow's sun  found  her  facing  a  firing  squad?  Not, 
indeed,  that  she  had  ever  heard  of  a  firing  squad,  as 
such.  But  she  had  seen  spies  shot  in  the  movies. 
They  invariably  stood  in  front  of  a  brick  wall,  with 
the  hero  in  the  center. 

So  she  absent-mindedly  ate  her  kippered  herring, 
which  had  been  strongly  recommended  by  the  waiter, 
and  tried  to  think  of  what  a  spy  would  do,  so  she  might 
avoid  any  suspicious  movements.  It  struck  her,  too, 
that  war  seemed  to  have  made  the  people  on  that  side 
of  the  ocean  extremely  ready  with  weapons.  They 
would  be  quite  likely  to  shoot  first  and  ask  questions 
afterwards  —  which  would  be  too  late  to  be  helpful. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      73 

She  remembered  Henri,  for  instance,  and  the  way, 
without  a  word,  he  had  shot  the  donkey. 

That  day  she  wrote  Harvey  a  letter. 

"  Dearest: "  it  began ;  "  I  think  I  am  to  leave  for 
France  to-night.  Things  seem  to  be  moving  nicely, 
and  I  am  being  helped  by  the  Belgian  Relief  Commis- 
sion. It  is  composed  of  Belgians  and  is  at  the  Savoy 
Hotel." 

Here  she  stopped  and  cried  a  little.  What  if  she 
should  never  see  Harvey  again  —  never  have  his 
sturdy  arms  about  her?  Harvey  gained  by  distance. 
She  remembered  only  his  unfailing  kindness  and 
strength  and  his  love  for  her.  He  seemed,  here  at  the 
edge  of  the  whirlpool,  a  sort  of  eddy  of  peace  and  quiet. 
Even  then  she  had  no  thought  of  going  back  until  her 
work  was  done,  but  she  did  an  unusual  thing  for  her, 
unused  to  demonstration  of  any  sort.  She  kissed  his 
ring. 

Followed  directions  about  sending  the  money  from 
the  church  society,  a  description  of  Morley's  and  Traf- 
algar Square,  an  account  of  tea  at  the  Travers',  and 
of  the  little  donkey  —  without  mention,  however,  of 
Henri.  She  felt  that  Harvey  would  not  understand 
Henri. 

But  at  the  end  came  the  passage  which  poor  Harvey 
read  and  re-read  when  the  letter  came,  and  alternately 
ground  his  teeth  over  and  kissed. 

"  I  do  love  you,  Harvey  dear.  And  I  am  coming 
back  to  you.  I  have  felt  that  I  had  to  do  what  I  am 


74      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

doing,  but  I  am  coming  back.  That's  a  promise.  Un- 
less, of  course,  I  should  take  sick,  or  something  like 
that,  which  isn't  likely." 

There  was  a  long  pause  in  the  writing  here,  but  Har- 
vey could  not  know  that. 

"  I  shall  wear  your  ring  always ;  and  always,  Har- 
vey, it  will  mean  to  me  that  I  belong  to  you.  With 
dearest  love. 

"  SARA  LEE." 

Then  she  added  a  postscript,  of  course. 

"  The  War  Office  is  not  letting  people  cross  to 
Calais  just  now.  But  I  am  going  to  do  it  anyhow. 
It  is  perfectly  simple.  And  when  I  get  over  I  shall 
write  and  tell  you  how. 

"S.  L." 

It  was  the  next  day  that  an  indignant  official  in  the 
censor's  office  read  that  postscript,  and  rose  in  his 
wrath  and  sent  a  third  Undersomething-or-other  to 
look  up  Sara  Lee  at  Morley's.  But  by  this  time  she 
was  embarked  on  the  big  adventure;  and  by  the  time 
a  cable  reached  Calais  there  was  no  trace  of  Sara  Lee. 

During  the  afternoon  she  called  up  Mr.  Travers  at 
his  office,  and  rather  gathered  that  he  did  not  care  to 
use  the  telephone  during  business  hours. 

"  I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  that  you  need  not  bother 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      75 

about  me  any  more,"  she  said.  "  I  am  being  sent  over, 
and  I  think  everything  is  all  right." 

He  was  greatly  relieved.  Mrs.  Travers  had  not 
fully  indorsed  his  encomiums  of  the  girl.  She  had  felt 
that  no  really  nice  girl  would  travel  so  far  on  so  pre- 
carious an  errand,  particularly  when  she  was  alone. 
And  how  could  one  tell,  coming  from  America,  how 
her  sympathies  really  lay?  She  might  be  of  German 
parentage  —  the  very  worst  sort,  because  they  spoke 
American.  It  was  easy  enough  to  change  a  name. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Travers  felt  a  trifle  low  in  his 
mind  when  he  hung  up  the  receiver.  He  said  twice  to 
himself:  "Twenty  pounds!"  And  at  last  he  put 
four  sovereigns  in  an  envelope  and  sent  them  to  her 
anonymously  by  messenger.  Sara  Lee  guessed  whence 
they  came,  but  she  respected  the  manner  of  the  gift  and 
did  not  thank  him.  It  was  almost  the  first  gold  money 
she  had  ever  seen. 

She  was  very  carefully  searched  at  the  railway  sta- 
tion that  night  and  found  that  her  American  Red  Cross 
button,  which  had  come  with  her  dollar  subscription 
to  the  association,  made  the  matron  inspector  rather 
kindly  inclined.  Nevertheless,  she  took  off  Sara  Lee's 
shoes,  and  ran  over  the  lining  of  her  coat,  and  quite 
ruined  the  maid's  packing  of  the  suitcase. 

"You  are  going  to  Boulogne?"  asked  the  matron 
inspector. 

Sara  Lee  did  not  like  to  lie. 

"  Wherever  the  boat  takes  me,"   she  said  with  a 


76      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

The  matron  smiled  too. 

"  I  shouldn't  be  nervous,  miss,"  she  said.  "  It's  a 
chance,  of  course,  but  they  have  not  done  much  damage 
yet." 

It  was  after  midnight  then,  and  a  cold  fog  made  the 
station  a  gloomy  thing  of  blurred  yellow  lights  and 
raw  chill.  A  few  people  moved  about,  mostly  officers 
in  uniform.  Half  a  dozen  men  in  civilian  clothes 
eyed  her  as  she  passed  through  the  gates;  Scotland 
Yard,  but  she  did  not  know.  And  once  she  thought 
she  saw  Henri,  but  he  walked  away  into  the  shadows 
and  disappeared.  The  train,  looking  as  absurdly  small 
and  light  as  all  English  trains  do,  was  waiting  out  in 
the  shed.  There  were  no  porters,  and  Sara  Lee  car- 
ried her  own  bag. 

She  felt  quite  sure  she  had  been  mistaken  about 
Henri,  for  of  course  he  would  have  come  and  carried 
it  for  her. 

The  train  was  cold  and  quiet.  When  it  finally 
moved  out  it  was  under  way  before  she  knew  that  it 
was  going.  And  then  suddenly  Sara  Lee's  heart  began 
to  pound  hard. 

It  was  a  very  cold  and  shivering  Sara  Lee  who  curled 
up,  alone  in  her  compartment,  and  stared  hard  at  Har- 
vey's ring  to  keep  her  courage  up.  But  a  curious  thing 
had  happened.  Harvey  gave  her  no  moral  support. 
He  brought  her  only  disapproval.  She  found  herself 
remembering  none  of  the  loving  things  he  had  said  to 
her,  but  only  the  bitter  ones. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  best  thing  for  her,  after  all.     Fo< 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      77 

a  sort  of  dogged  determination  to  go  through  with  it 
all,  at  any  cost,  braced  her  to  her  final  effort. 

So  far  it  had  all  been  busy  enough,  but  not  comfort- 
able. She  was  cold,  and  she  had  eaten  almost  nothing 
all  day.  As  the  Hours  went  on  and  the  train  slid 
through  the  darkness  she  realized  that  she  was  rather 
faint.  The  steam  pipes,  only  warm  at  the  start,  were 
entirely  cold  by  one  o'clock,  and  by  two  Sara  Lee  was 
sitting  on  her  feet,  with  a  heavy  coat  wrapped  about 
her  knees. 

The  train  moved  quietly,  as  do  all  English  trains, 
with  no  jars  and  little  sound.  There  were  few  lights 
outside,  for  the  towns  of  Eastern  England  were  dark- 
ened, like  London,  against  air  attacks.  So  when  she 
looked  at  the  window  she  saw  only  her  own  reflection, 
white  and  wide-eyed,  above  Aunt  Harriet's  fur  neck- 
piece. 

In  the  next  compartment  an  officer  was  snoring,  but 
she  did  not  close  her  eyes.  Perhaps,  for  that  last  hour, 
some  of  the  glow  that  had  brought  her  so  far  failed 
her.  She  was  not  able  to  think  beyond  Folkestone, 
save  occasionally,  and  that  with  a  feeling  that  it  should 
not  be  made  so  difficult  to  do  a  kind  and  helpful  thing. 

At  a  quarter  before  three  the  train -eased  down.  In 
the  same  proportion  Sara  Lee's  pulse  went  up.  A 
long  period  of  crawling  along,  a  stop  or  two,  but  no 
resultant  opening  of  the  doors:  and  at  last,  in  a  cold 
rain  and  a  howling  wind  from  the  channel,  the  little 
seaport  city. 

More  officers  than  she  had  suspected,  a  few  women, 


78      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

got  out.  The  latter  Sara  Lee's  experience  on  the 
steamer  enabled  her  to  place;  buyers  mostly,  and 
Americans,  on  their  way  to  Paris,  blockade  or  no 
blockade,  because  the  American  woman  must  be  well 
and  smartly  gowned  and  hatted.  A  man  with  a 
mourning  band  on  his  sleeve  carried  a  wailing  child. 

The  officers  lighted  cigarettes.  The  civilians 
formed  a  line  on  the  jetty  under  the  roof  of  the  shed, 
and  waited,  passports  in  hand,  before  a  door  that 
gleamed  with  yellow  light.  Faces  looked  pale  and 
anxious.  The  blockade  was  on,  and  Germany  had  said 
that  no  ships  would  cross  that  night. 

As  if  defiantly  the  Boulogne  boat,  near  at  hand,  was 
ablaze,  on  the  shore  side  at  least,  with  lights.  Stew- 
ards came  and  went.  Beyond  it  lay  the  harbor,  dark 
and  mysterious  save  where,  from  somewhere  across,  a 
flashlight  made  a  brave  effort  to  pierce  the  fog. 

One  of  the  buyers  ahead  of  Sara  Lee  seemed  ex- 
hilarated by  the  danger  ahead. 

"  They'll  never  get  us,"  she  said.  "  Look  at  that 
fog!" 

"  It's  lifting,  dearie,"  answered  a  weary  voice  be- 
hind her.  "  The  wind  is  carrying  it  away." 

When  Sara  Lee's  turn  came  she  was  ready.  A 
group  of  men  in  civilian  clothes,  seated  about  a  long 
table,  looked  her  over  carefully.  Her  passports 
moved  deliberately  from  hand  to  hand.  A  long  busi- 
ness, and  the  baby  wailing  harder  than  ever.  But  the 
office  was  at  least  warm.  Some  of  her  failing  courage 
came  back  as  she  moved-,  following  her  papers,  round 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      79 

the  table.  They  were  given  back  to  her  at  last,  and  she 
went  out.  She  had  passed  the  first  ordeal. 

Suitcase  in  hand  she  wandered  down  the  stone  jetty. 
The  Boulogne  boat  she  passed,  and  kept  on.  At  the 
very  end,  dark  and  sinister,  lay  another  boat.  It  had 
no  lights.  The  tide  was  in,  and  its  deck  lay  almost 
flush  with  the  pier.  Sara  Lee  walked  on  toward  it 
until  a  voice  spoke  to  her  out  of  the  darkness  and  near 
at  hand. 

"  Your  boat  is  back  there,  madam." 

"  I  know.     Thank  you.     I  am  just  walking  about." 

The  petty  officer  —  he  was  a  petty  officer,  though 
Sara  Lee  had  never  heard  the  term  —  was  inclined  to 
be  suspicious.  Under  excuse  of  lighting  his  pipe  he 
struck  a  match,  and  Sara  Lee's  young  figure  stood  out 
in  full  relief.  His  suspicions  died  away  with  the  flare. 

"  Bad  night,  miss,"  he  offered. 

"  Very,"  said  Sara  Lee,  and  turned  back  again. 

This  time,  bewildered  and  uneasy,  she  certainly  saw 
Henri.  But  he  ignored  her.  He  was  alone,  and 
smoking  one  of  his  interminable  cigarettes.  He  had 
not  said  he  was  crossing,  and  why  had  he  not  spoken 
to  her  ?  He  wandered  past  down  the  pier,  and  she  lost 
him  in  the  shadows.  When  he  came  back  he  paused 
near  her,  and  at  last  saluted  and  spoke. 

"Pardon,"  he  said.  "If  you  will  stand  back  here 
yo\a  will  find  less  wind." 

"  Thank  you." 

He  carried  her  suitcase  back,  and  stooping  over  to 
place  it  at  her  feet  he  said :  "  I  shall  send  him  on 


8o      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

board  with  a  message  to  the  captain.  When  I  come 
back  try  again." 

He  left  her  at  once.  The  passengers  for  Boulogne 
were  embarking  now.  A  silent  lot,  they  disappeared 
into  the  warmth  and  brightness  of  the  little  boat  and 
were  lost.  No  one  paid  any  attention  to  Sara  Lee 
standing  in  the  shadows. 

Soon  Henri  came  back.  He  walked  briskly  and 
touched  his  cap  as  he  passed.  He  went  aboard  the 
Boulogne  steamer,  and  without  a  backward  glance  dis- 
appeared. 

Sara  Lee  watched  him  out  of  sight,  in  a  very  real 
panic.  He  had  been  something  real  and  tangible  in 
that  shadowy  place  —  something  familiar  in  an  unfa- 
miliar world.  But  he  was  gone.  She  threw  up  her 
head. 

So  once  more  Sara  Lee  picked  up  her  suitcase  and 
went  down  the  pier.  Now  she  was  unchallenged. 
What  lurking  figure  might  be  on  the  dark  deck  of  the 
Calais  boat  she  could  not  tell.  That  was  the  chance 
she  was  to  take.  The  gangway  was  still  out,  and  as 
quietly  as  possible  she  went  aboard.  The  Boulogne 
boat  had  suddenly  gone  dark,  and  she  heard  the  churn- 
ing of  the  screw.  With  the  extinction  of  the  lights  on 
the  other  boat  came  at  last  deeper  night  to  her  aid. 
A  few  steps,  a  stumble,  a  gasp  —  and  she  was  on  board 
the  forbidden  ship. 

She  turned  forward,  according  to  her  instructions, 
where  the  overhead  deck  made  below  an  even  deeper 
shadow.  Henri  had  said  that  there  were  cabins  there. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE       81 

and  that  the  chance  was  of  finding  an  unlocked  one. 
If  they  were  all  locked  she  would  be  discovered  at 
dawn,  and  arrested.  And  Sara  Lee  was  not  a  war 
correspondent.  She  was  not  accustomed  to  arrest. 
Indeed  she  had  a  deep  conviction  that  arrest  in  her  case 
would  mean  death.  False,  of  course,  but  surely  it 
shows  her  courage. 

As  she  stood  there,  breathless  and  listening,  the 
Boulogne  boat  moved  out.  She  heard  the  wash 
against  the  jetty,  felt  the  rolling  of  its  waves.  But 
being  on  the  landward  side  she  could  not  see  the  faint 
gleam  of  a  cigarette  that  marked  Henri's  anxious  fig- 
ure at  the  rail.  So  long  as  the  black  hulk  of  the  Calais 
boat  was  visible,  and  long  after  indeed,  Henri  stood 
there,  outwardly  calm  but  actually  shaken  by  many 
fears.  She  had  looked  so  small  and  young:  and  who 
could  know  what  deviltry  lurked  abroad  that  night? 

He  had  not  gone  with  her  because  it  was  necessary 
that  he  be  in  Boulogne  the  next  morning.  And  also, 
the  very  chance  of  getting  her  across  lay  in  her  being 
alone  and  unobserved. 

So  he  stood  by  the  rail  and  looked  back  and  said  a 
wordless  little  prayer  that  if  there  was  trouble  it  come 
to  his  boat  and  not  to  the  other.  Which  might  very 
considerably  have  disturbed  the  buyers  had  they  known 
of  it  and  believed  in  prayer. 

Sara  Lee  stood  in  the  shadows  and  listened.  There 
were  voices  overhead,  from  the  bridge.  A  door 
opened  onto  the  deck  and  threw  out  a  ray  of  light. 
Some  one  came  out  and  went  on  shore,  walking  with 


82      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

brisk  ringing  steps.  And  then  at  last  she  put  down 
her  bag  and  tried  door  after  door,  without  result. 

The  man  who  had  gone  ashore  called  another.  The 
gangway  was  drawn  in.  The  engines  began  to  vibrate 
underfoot.  Sara  Lee,  breathless  and  terrified,  stood 
close  to  a  cabin  door  and  remained  immovable.  At 
one  moment  it  seemed  as  if  a  seaman  was  coming  for' 
ward  to  where  she  stood.  But  he  did  not  come. 

The  Calais  boat  was  waiting  until  the  other  steamer 
had  got  well  out  of  the  harbor.  The  fog  had  lifted, 
and  the  searchlight  was  moving  over  the  surface.  It 
played  round  the  channel  steamer  without  touching  it. 
But  none  of  this  was  visible  to  Sara  Lee. 

At  last  the  lights  of  the  quay  began  to  recede.  The 
little  boat  rocked  slightly  in  its  own  waves  as  it  edged 
away.  It  moved  slowly  through  the  shipping  and  out 
until,  catching  the  swell  of  the  channel,  it  shot  ahead 
at  top  speed. 

For  an  hour  Sara  Lee  stood  there.  The  channel 
wind  caught  her  and  tore  at  her  skirts  until  she  was 
almost  frozen.  And  finally,  in  sheer  desperation,  she 
worked  her  way  round  to  the  other  side.  She  saw  no 
one.  Save  for  the  beating  heart  of  the  engine  below 
it  might  have  been  a  dead  ship. 

On  the  other  side  she  found  an  open  door  and  stum- 
bled into  the  tiny  dark  deck  cabin,  as  chilled  and 
frightened  a  philanthropist  as  had  ever  crossed  that  old 
and  tricky  and  soured  bit  of  seaway.  And  there,  to  be 
frank,  she  forgot  her  fright  in  as  bitter  a  tribute  of 
seasickness  as  even  the  channel  has  ever  exacted, 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      83 

She  had  locked  herself  in,  and  she  fell  at  last  into 
an  exhausted  sleep.  When  she  wakened  and  peered 
out  through  the  tiny  window  it  was  gray  winter  dawn. 
The  boat  was  quiet,  and  before  her  lay  the  quay  of 
Calais  and  the  Gare  Maritime.  A  gangway  was  out 
and  a  hurried  survey  showed  no  one  in  sight. 

Sara  Lee  picked  up  her  suitcase  and  opened  the  door. 
The.  fresh  morning  air  revived  her,  but  nevertheless 
it  was  an  extremely  pale  young  woman  who,  obeying 
Henri's  instructions,  went  ashore  that  morning  in  the 
gray  dawn  unseen,  undisturbed  and  unqestioned. 
But  from  the  moment  she  appeared  on  the  gangway 
until  the  double  glass  doors  of  the  Gare  Maritime 
closed  behind  her  this  apparently  calm  young  woman 
did  not  breathe  at  all.  She  arrived,  indeed,  with  lungs 
fairly  collapsed  and  her  heart  entirely  unreliable. 

A  woman  clerk  was  asleep  at  a  desk.  Sara  Lee 
roused  her  to  half  wakefulness,  no  interest  and  ex- 
tremely poor  English.  A  drowsy  porter  led  her  up  a 
staircase  and  down  an  endless  corridor.  Then  at  last 
he  was  gone,  and  Sara  Lee  turned  the  key  in  her  door 
and  burst  into  tears. 


VII 

NOW  up  to  this  point  Sara  Lee's  mind  had  come  to 
rest  at  Calais.  She  must  get  there;  after  that 
the  other  things  would  need  to  be  worried  over. 
Henri  had  already  in  their  short  acquaintance  installed 
himself  as  the  central  figure  of  this  strange  and  amaz- 
ing interlude  —  not  as  a  good-looking  young  soldier 
surprisingly  fertile  in  expedients,  but  as  a  sort  of  agent 
of  providence,  by  whom  and  through  whom  things 
were  done. 

And  Henri  had  said  she  was  to  go  to  the  Gare  Mari- 
time at  Calais  and  make  herself  comfortable  —  if  she 
got  there.  After  that  things  would  be  arranged. 

Sara  Lee  therefore  took  a  hot  bath,  though  hardly 
a  satisfactory  one,  for  there  was  no  soap  and  she  had 
brought  none.  She  learned  later  on  to  carry  soap  with 
her  everywhere.  So  she  soaked  the  chill  out  of  her 
slim  body  and  then  dressed.  The  room  was  cold,  but 
a  great  exultation  kept  her  warm.  She  had  run  the 
blockade,  she  had  escaped  the  War  Office  —  which,  by 
the  way,  was  looking  her  up  almost  violently  by  that 
time,  via  the  censor.  It  had  found  the  trunk  she  left 
at  Morley's,  and  cross-questioned  the  maid  into  hys- 
teria—  and  here  she  was,  safe  in  France,  the  harbor 
of  Calais  before  her,  and  here  and  there  strange- 
looking  war  craft  taking  on  coal.  Destroyers,  she 
learned  later.  Her  ignorance  was  rather  appalling  at 
first. 

85 


\ 


86      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

It  was  all  unreal  —  the  room  with  its  cold  steam 
pipes,  the  heavy  window  hangings,  the  very  words  on 
the  hot  and  cold  taps  in  the  bathroom.  A  great  vessel 
moved  into  the  harbor.  As  it  turned  she  saw  its 
name  printed  on  its  side  in  huge  letters,  and  the  flag, 
also  painted,  of  a  neutral  country  —  a  hoped-for  pro- 
tection against  German  submarines.  It  brought  home 
to  her,  rather,  the  thing  she  had  escaped. 

After  a  time  she  thought  of  food,  but  rather  hope- 
lessly. Her  attempts  to  get  savon  from  a  stupid  boy 
had  produced  nothing  more  useful  than  a  flow  of  un- 
intelligible French  and  no  soap  whatever.  She  tried 
a  pantomime  of  washing  her  hands,  but  to  the  boy 
she  had  appeared  to  be  merely  wringing  them.  And, 
as  a  great  many  females  were  wringing  their  hands  in 
France  those  days,  he  had  gone  away,  rather  sorry  for 
her. 

When  hunger  drove  her  to  the  bell  again  he  came 
back  and  found  her  with  her  little  phrase  book  in  her 
hands,  feverishly  turning  the  pages.  She  could  find 
plenty  of  sentences  such  as  "  Garqon,  vous  avez  r en- 
verse  du  vin  sur  ma  robe"  but  not  an  egg  lifted  its 
shining  pate  above  the  pages.  Not  cereal.  Not  fruit. 
Not  even  the  word  breakfast. 

Long,  long  afterward  Sara  Lee  found  a  quite  de- 
lightful breakfast  hidden  between  two  pages  that  were 
stuck  together.  But  it  was  then  far  too  late. 

"  Donnez-moi,"  began  Sara  Lee,  and  turned  the 
pages  rapidly,  "this;  do  you  see?"  She  had  found 
roast  beef. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE       87 

The  boy  observed  stolidly,  in  French,  that  it  was 
not  ready  until  noon.  She  was  able  to  make  out,  from 
his  failing  to  depart,  that  there  was  no  roast  beef. 

"Good  gracious!"  she  said,  ravenous  and  exas- 
perated. "  Go  and  get  me  some  bread  and  coffee,  any- 
how." She  repeated  it,  slightly  louder. 

That  was  the  tableau  that  Henri  found  when,  after 
a  custom  that  may  be  war  or  may  be  Continental,  he 
had  inquired  the  number  of  her  room  and  made  his 
way  there. 

There  was  a  twinkle  in  his  blue  eyes  as  he  bowed 
before  her  —  and  a  vast  relief  too. 

"  So  you  are  here!  "  he  said  in  a  tone  of  satisfaction. 

He  had  put  in  an  extremely  bad  night,  even  for  him, 
Dy  whom  nights  were  seldom  wasted  in  a  bed.  While 
he  was  with  her  something  of  her  poise  had  communi- 
cated itself  to  him.  He  had  felt  the  confidence,  in  men 
and  affairs,  that  American  girls  are  given  as  a  birth- 
right. And  her  desire  for  service  he  had  understood 
as  a  year  or  two  ago  he  could  not  have  understood. 
•But  he  had  stood  by  the  rail  staring  north,  and  cursing 
himself  for  having  placed  her  in  danger  during  the 
entire  crossing. 

There  was  nothing  about  him  that  morning,  how- 
ever, to  show  his  bad  hours.  He  was  debonnaire  and 
smiling. 

"  I  am  famishing,"  said  Sara  Lee.  "  And  there  are 
no  eggs  in  this  book  —  none  whatever." 

"  Eggs !     You  wish  eggs?  " 


\ 


88      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  I  just  want  food.  Almost  anything  will  do.  I 
asked  for  eggs  because  they  can  come  quickly." 

Henri  turned  to  the  boy  and  sent  him  off  with  a 
rapid  order.  Then :  "  May  I  come  in?  "  he  said. 

Sara  Lee  cast  an  uneasy  glance  over  the  room.  It 
was  extremely  tidy,  and  unmistakably  it  was  a  bed- 
room. But  though  her  color  rose  she  asked  him  in. 
After  all,  what  did  it  matter?  To  have  refused  would 
have  looked  priggish,  she  said  to  herself.  And  as  a 
matter  of  fact  one  of  the  early  lessons  she  learned  in 
France  was  learned  that  morning  —  that  though  con- 
vention had  had  to  go,  like  many  other  things  in  the 
war,  men  who  were  gentlemen  ignored  its  passing. 

Henri  came  in  and  stood  by  the  center  table. 

"  Now,  please  tell  me,"  he  said.  "  I  have  been  most 
uneasy.  On  the  quay  last  night  you  looked  —  fright- 
ened.'"' 

"  I  was  awfully  frightened.  Nothing  happened.  I 
even  slept." 

"  You  were  very  brave." 

"  I  was  very  seasick." 

"  I  am  sorry." 

Henri  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  But,"  said  Sara  Lee  slowly,  "I  —  I  —  can't  be  on 
your  hands,  you  know.  You  must  have  many  things 
to  do.  If  you  are  going  to  have  to  order  my  meal? 
and  all  that,  I'm  going  to  be  a  dreadful  burden." 

"  But  you  will  learn  very  quickly." 

"  I'm  stupid  about  languages." 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      89 

Henri  dismissed  that  with  a  gesture.  She  could  not, 
he  felt,  be  stupid  about  anything.  He  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  out.  The  destroyers  were  still 
coaling,  and  a  small  cargo  was  being  taken  off  the  boat 
at  the  quay.  The  rain  was  over,  and  in  the  early 
sunlight  an  officer  in  blue  tunic,  red  breeches  and  black 
cavalry  boots  was  taking  the  air,  his  head  bent  over 
his  chest.  Not  a  detail  of  the  scene  escaped  him. 

"  I  have  agreed  to  find  the  right  place  for  you,"  he 

said  thoughtfully.  "  There  is  one,  but  I  think " 

He  hesitated.  "  I  do  not  wish  to  place  you  again  in 
danger." 

"  You  mean  that  it  is  near  the  Front  ?  " 

"  Very  near,  mademoiselle." 

"  But  I  should  be  rather  near,  to  be  useful." 

"  Perhaps,  for  your  work.  But  what  of  you? 
These  brutes  —  they  shell  far  and  wide.  One  can 
never  be  sure." 

He  paused  and  surveyed  her  whimsically. 

"Who  allowed  you  to  come,  alone,  like  this?"  he 
demanded.  "  Is  there  no  one  who  objected?  " 

Sara  Lee  glanced  down  at  her  ring. 

"  The  man  I  am  going  to  marry.  He  is  very 
angry." 

Henri  looked  at  her,  and  followed  her  eyes  to  Har- 
vey's ring.  He  said  nothing,  however,  but  he  went 
over  and  gave  the  bell  cord  a  violent  jerk. 

"  You  must  have  food  quickly,"  he  said  in  a  rather 
flat  voice.  "  You  are  looking  tired  and  pale." 

A   sense  of   unreality  was  growing  on   Sara  Lee. 


90      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

That  she  should  be  alone  in  France  with  a  man  she  ha<1 
never  seen  three  days  before;  that  she  knew  nothing 
whatever  about  that  man;  that,  for  the  present  at 
least,  she  was  utterly  and  absolutely  dependent  on 
him,  even  for  the  food  she  ate  —  it  was  all  of  a  piece 
with  the  night's  voyage  and  the  little  room  at  the 
Savoy.  And  it  was  none  of  it  real. 

When  the  breakfast  tray  came  Henri  was  again  at 
the  window  and  silent.  And  Sara  Lee  saw  that  it  was 
laid  for  two.  She  was  a  little  startled,  but  the  busi- 
nesslike way  in  which  the  young  officer  drew  up  two 
chairs  and  held  one  out  for  her  made  protest  seem 
absurd.  And  the  flat-faced  boy,  who  waited,  looked 
unshocked  and  uninterested. 

It  was  not  until  she  had  had  some  coffee  that  Henri 
followed  up  his  line  of  thought. 

"  So  —  the  fiance  did  not  approve  ?  It  is  not  diffi- 
cult to  understand.  There  is  always  danger,  for  there 
are  German  aeroplanes  even  in  remote  places.  And 
you  are  very  young.  You  still  wish  to  establish  your- 
self, mademoiselle?  " 

"Of  course!" 

"  Would  it  be  a  comfort  to  cable  your  safe  arrival 
in  France  to  the  fiance  ?  "  When  he  saw  her  face  he 
smiled.  And  if  it  was  a  rather  heroic  smile  it  was 
none  the  less  friendly.  "  I  see.  What  shall  I  say  ? 
Or  will  you  write  it?  " 

So  Sara  Lee,  vastly  cheered  by  two  cups  of  coffee, 
an  egg»  and  a  very  considerable  portion  of  bread  and 
butter,  wrote  her  cable.  It  was  to  be  brief,  for  cables 


cost  money.  It  said,  "  Safe.  Well.  Love."  And 
Henri,  who  seemed  to  have  strange  and  ominous  pow- 
ers, sent  it  almost  immediately.  Total  cost,  as  re- 
ported to  Sara  Lee,  two  francs.  He  took  the  money 
she  offered  him  gravely. 

"  We  shall  cable  quite  often,"  he  said.  "  He  will 
be  anxious.  And  I  think  he  has  a  right  to  know." 

The  "  we  "  was  entirely  unconscious. 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  when  he  had  gravely  allowed 
Sara  Lee  to  pay  her  half  of  the  breakfast,  "  we  must 
arrange  to  get  you  out  of  Calais.  And  that,  made- 
moiselle, may  take  time." 

It  took  time.  Sara  Lee,  growing  accustomed  now 
to  little  rooms  entirely  rilled  with  men  and  typewriters, 
went  from  one  office  to  another,  walking  along  the  nar- 
row pavements  with  Henri,  through  streets  filled  with 
soldiers.  Once  they  drew  aside  to  let  pass  a  proces- 
sion of  Belgian  refugees,  those  who  had  held  to  their 
village  homes  until  bombardment  had  destroyed  them 
—  stout  peasant  women  in  short  skirts  and  with  huge 
bundles,  old  men,  a  few  young  ones,  many  children. 
The  terror  of  the  early  flight  was  not  theirs,  but  there 
was  in  all  of  them  a  sort  of  sodden  hopelessness  that 
cut  Sara  Lee  to  the  heart.  In  an  irregular  column  they 
walked  along,  staring  ahead  but  seeing  nothing.  Even 
the  children  looked  old  and  tired. 

Sara  Lee's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  My  people,"  said  Henri.  "  Simple  country  folk, 
and  going  to  England,  where  they  will  grieve  for  the 
things  that  are  gone  —  their  fields  and  their  sons. 


92      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

The  old  ones  will  die,  quickly,  of  homesickness.  It  is 
difficult  to  transplant  an  old  tree." 

The  final  formalities  seemed  to  offer  certain  difficul- 
ties. Henri,  who  liked  to  do  things  quickly  and  like 
a  prince,  flushed  with  irritation.  He  drew  himself  up 
rather  haughtily  in  reply  to  one  question,  and  glanced 
uneasily  at  the  girl.  But  it  was  all  as  intelligible  as 
Sanskrit  to  her. 

It  was  only  after  a  whispered  sentence  to  the  man  at 
the  head  of  the  table  that  the  paper  was  finally  signed. 

As  they  went  down  to  the  street  together  Sara  Lee 
made  a  little  protest. 

"  But  I  simply  must  not  take  all  your  time,"  she 
said,  looking  up  anxiously.  "  I  begin  to  realize  how 
foolhardy  the  whole  thing  is.  I  meant  well,  but  —  it 
is  you  who  are  doing  everything;  not  I." 

"  I  shall  not  make  the  soup,  mademoiselle/'  he  re- 
plied gravely. 


VIII 

THERE  were  more  things  to  do.  Sara  Lee's 
money  must  be  exchanged  at  a  bank  for  French 
gold.  She  had  three  hundred  dollars,  and  it  had  been 
given  her  in  a  tiny  brown  canvas  bag.  And  then  there 
was  the  matter  of  going  from  Calais  toward  the  Front. 
She  had  expected  to  find  a  train,  but  there  were  no 
trains.  All  cars  were  being  used  for  troops.  She 
stared  at  Henri  in  blank  dismay. 

"  No  trains !  "  she  said  blankly.  "  Would  an  auto- 
mobile be  very  expensive  ?  " 

"  They  are  all  under  government  control,  mademoi- 
selle. Even  the  petrol." 

She  stopped  in  the  street. 

"  Then  I  shall  have  to  go  back." 

Henri  laughed  boyishly. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "  I  have  been  requested 
to  take  you  to  a  place  where  you  may  render  us  the 
service  we  so  badly  need.  For  the  present  that  is  my 
duty,  and  nothing  else.  So  if  you  will  accept  the  offer 
of  my  car,  which  is  a  shameful  one  but  travels  well, 
we  can  continue  our  journey." 

Long,  long  afterward,  Sara  Lee  found  a  snapshot 
of  Henri's  car,  taken  by  a  light-hearted  British  officer. 
Found  it  and  sat  for  a  long  time  with  it  in  her  hand, 
thinking  and  remembering  that  first  day  she  saw  it, 
in  the  sun  at  Calais.  A  long  low  car  it  was,  once 
green,  but  now  roughly  painted  gray.  But  it  was  not 

93 


94      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

the  crude  painting,  significant  as  it  was,  that  brought 
so  close  the  thing  she  was  going  to.  It  was  that  the 
car  was  but  a  shell  of  a  car.  The  mud  guards  were 
crumpled  up  against  the  side.  Body  and  hood  were 
pitted  with  shrapnel.  A  door  had  been  shot  away, 
and  the  wind  shield  was  but  a  frame  set  round  with 
broken  glass.  Even  the  soldier-chauffeur  wore  a  patch 
over  one  eye,  and  his  uniform  was  ragged. 

"  Not  a  beautiful  car,  mademoiselle,  as  I  warned 
you !  But  a  fast  one !  " 

Henri  was  having  a  double  enjoyment.  He  was 
watching  Sara  Lee's  face  and  his  chauffeur's  remain- 
ing eye. 

"But  fast;  eh,  Jean?"  he  said  to  the  chauffeur. 
The  man  nodded  and  said  something  in  French.  It 
was  probably  the  thing  Henri  had  hoped  for,  and  he 
threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"  Jean  is  reminding  me,"  he  said  gayly,  "  that  it  is 
forbidden  to  officers  to  take  a  lady  along  the  road  that 
we  shall  travel."  But  when  he  saw  how  Sara  Lee 
flushed  he  turned  to  the  man. 

"  Mademoiselle  has  come  from  America  to  help  us, 
Jean,"  he  said  quietly.  "  And  now  for  Dunkirk." 

The  road  from  Dunkirk  to  Calais  was  well  guarded 
in  those  days.  From  Nieuport  for  some  miles  inland 
only  the  shattered  remnant  of  the  Belgian  Army  held 
the  line.  For  the  cry  "  On  to  Paris ! "  the  Germans 
had  substituted  "  On  to  Calais !  " 

So,  on  French  soil  at  least,  the  road  was  well 
guarded.  A  few  miles  in  the  battered  car,  then  a  slow- 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      95 

ing  up,  a  showing  of  passports,  the  clatter  of  a  great 
chain  as  it  dropped  to  the  road,  a  lowering  of  leveled 
rifles,  and  a  salute  from  the  officer  —  that  was  the 
method  by  which  they  advanced. 

Henri  sat  with  the  driver  and  talked  in  a  low  tone. 
Sometimes  he  sat  quiet,  looking  ahead.  He  seemed, 
somehow,  older,  more  careworn.  His  boyishness  had 
gone.  Now  and  then  he  turned  to  ask  if  she  was 
comfortable,  but  in  the  intervals  she  felt  that  he  had 
entirely  forgotten  her.  Once,  at  something  Jean  said, 
he  got  out  a  pocket  map  and  went  over  it  carefully. 
It  was  a  long  time  after  that  before  he  turned  to  see 
if  she  was  all  right. 

Sara  Lee  sat  forward  and  watched  everything.  She 
saw  little  evidence  of  war,  beyond  the  occasional  sen- 
tries and  chains.  Women  were  walking  along  the 
roads.  Children  stopped  and  pointed,  smiling,  at  the 
battered  car.  One  very  small  boy  saluted,  and  Henri 
as  gravely  returned  the  salute. 

Some  time  after  that  he  turned  to  her. 

"  I  find  that  I  shall  have  to  leave  you  in  Dunkirk," 
he  said.  "  A  matter  of  a  day  only,  probably.  But  I 
will  see  before  I  go  that  you  are  comfortable." 

"  I  shall  be  quite  all  right,  of  course." 

But  something  had  gone  out  of  the  day  for  her. 

Sara  Lee  learned  one  thing  that  day,  learned  it  as 
some  women  do  learn,  by  the  glance  of  an  eye,  the  tone 
of  a  voice.  The  chauffeur  adored  Henri.  His  one 
unbandaged  eye  stole  moments  from  the  road  to  glance 
at  him.  When  he  spoke,  while  Henri  read  his  map, 


96      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

his  very  voice  betrayed  him.  And  while  she  pondered 
the  thing,  woman- fashion,  they  drew  into  the  square 
of  Dunkirk,  where  the  statue  of  Jean  Bart,  pirate  and 
privateer,  stared  down  at  this  new  procession  of  war 
which  passed  daily  and  nightly  under  his  cold  eyes. 

Jean  and  a  porter  carried  in  her  luggage.  Henri 
and  a  voluble  and  smiling  Frenchwoman  showed  her 
to  her  room.  She  felt  like  an  island  of  silence  in 
a  rapid-rolling  sea  of  French.  The  Frenchwoman 
threw  open  the  door. 

A  great  room  with  high  curtained  windows ;  a  huge 
bed  with  a  faded  gilt  canopy  and  heavy  draperies;  a 
wardrobe  as  vast  as  the  bed;  and  for  a  toilet  table  an 
enormous  mirror  reaching  to  the  ceiling  and  with  a 
marble  shelf  below  —  that  was  her  room. 

"  I  think  you  will  be  comfortable  here,  mademoi- 
selle." 

Sara  Lee,  who  still  clutched  her  small  bag  of  gold, 
shook  her  head. 

"  Comfortable,  yes,"  she  said.  "  But  I  am  afraid 
it  is  very  expensive." 

Henri  named  an  extremely  row  figure  —  an  exact 
fourth,  to  be  accurate,  of  its  real  cost.  A  surprising 
person,  Henri,  with  his  worn  uniform  and  his  capacity 
for  kindly  mendacity.  And  seeing  something  in  the 
Frenchwoman's  face  that  perhaps  he  had  expected,  he 
turned  to  her  almost  fiercely : 

"  You  are  to  understand,  madame,  that  this  lady  has 
been  placed  in  my  care  by  authority  that  will  not  be 
questioned.  She  is  to  have  every  deference." 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE       97 

That  was  all,  but  was  enough.  And  from  that  time 
on  Sara  Lee  Kennedy,  of  Ohio,  was  called,  in  the  tiny 
box  downstairs  which  constituted  die  office,  "  Made- 
moiselle La  Princesse." 

Henri  did  a  characteristic  and  kindly  thing  for  Sara 
Lee  before  he  left  that  evening  on  one  of  the  many 
mysterious  journeys  that  he  was  to  make  during  the 
time  Sara  Lee  knew  him.  He  came  to  her  door, 
menus  in  hand,  and  painstakingly  ordered  for  her  a 
dinner  for  that  night,  and  the  three  meals  for  the  day 
following. 

He  made  no  suggestion  of  dining  with  her  that  eve- 
ning. Indeed  watching  him  from  her  small  table  Sara 
Lee  decided  that  he  had  put  her  entirely  out  of  his 
mind.  He  did  not  so  much  as  glance  at  her.  Save 
the  cashier  at  her  boxed-in  desk  and  money  drawer, 
she  was  the  only  woman  in  that  room  full  of  officers. 
Quite  certainly  Henri  was  the  only  man  who  did  not 
find  some  excuse  for  glancing  in  her  direction. 

But  finishing  early,  he  paused  by  the  cashier's  desk 
to  pay  for  his  meal,  and  then  he  gave  Sara  Lee  the 
stiff est  and  most  ceremonious  of  bows. 

She  felt  hurt.  Alone  in  her  great  room,  the  cur- 
tains drawn  by  order  of  the  police,  lest  a  ray  of  light 
betray  the  town  to  eyes  in  the  air,  she  went  carefully 
over  the  hours  she  had  spent  with  Henri  that  day, 
looking  for  a  cause  of  offense.  She  must  have  hurt 
him  or  he  would  surely  have  stopped  to  speak  to  her. 

Perhaps  already  he  was  finding  her  a  burden.  She 
flushed  with  shame  when  she  remembered  about  the 


98      THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

meals  he  had  had  to  order  for  her,  and  she  sat  up  in 
her  great  bed  until  late,  studying  by  candlelight  such 
phrases  as: 

"  Ily  a  une  erreur  dans  la  note"  and  "  Garqon,  qncls 
fruits  avez-vous?  " 

She  tried  to  write  to  Harvey  that  night,  but  she  gave 
it  up  at  last.  There  was  too  much  he  would  not  un- 
derstand. She  could  not  write  frankly  without  telling 
of  Henri,  and  to  this  point  everything  had  centered 
about  Henri.  It  all  rather  worried  her,  because  there 
was  nothing  she  was  ashamed  of,  nothing  she  should 
have  had  to  conceal.  She  had  yet  to  learn,  had  Sara 
Lee,  that  many  of  the  concealments  of  life  are  based 
not  on  wrongdoing  but  on  fear  of  misunderstanding. 

So  she  got  as  far  as :  "  Dearest  Harvey:  I  am  here 
in  a  hotel  at  Dunkirk  " —  and  then  stopped,  fairly  en- 
gulfed in  a  wave  of  homesickness.  Not  so  much  for 
Harvey  as  for  familiar  things  —  Uncle  James  in  his 
diair  by  the  fire,  with  the  phonograph  playing  "  My 
Little  Gray  Home  in  the  West " ;  her  own  white  bed- 
room ;  the  sun  on  the  red  geraniums  in  the  dining-room 
window :  the  voices  of  happy  children  wandering  home 
from  school. 

She  got  up  and  went  to  the  window,  first  blowing 
out  the  candle.  Outside,  the  town  lay  asleep,  and 
from  a  gate  in  the  old  wall  a  sentry  with  a  bugle  blew  a 
quiet  "  All's  well."  From  somewhere  near,  on  lop  of 
the  mairie  perhaps,  where  eyes  all  night  searched  the 
sky  for  danger,  came  the  same  trumpet  call  of  safety 
for  the  time,  of  a  little  longer  for  auiet  sleeo. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE      99 

For  two  days  the  girl  was  alone.  There  wac  no 
sign  of  Henri.  She  had  nothing  to  read,  and  her  eyes, 
watching  hour  after  hour  the  panorama  that  passed 
through  the  square  under  her  window,  searched  vainly 
for  his  battered  gray  car.  In  daytime  the  panorama 
was  chiefly  of  motor  lorries  —  she  called  them  trucks 
—  piled  high  with  supplies,  often  fodder  for  the  horses 
in  that  vague  district  beyond  ammunition  and  food. 
Now  and  then  a  battery  rumbled  through,  its  gunners 
on  the  limbers,  detached,  with  folded  arms;  and  al- 
ways there  were  soldiers. 

Sometimes,  from  her  window,  she  saw  the  market 
people  below,  in  their  striped  red-and-white  booths, 
staring  up  at  the  sky.  She  would  look  up,  too,  and 
there  would  be  an  aeroplane  sliding  along,  sometimes 
so  low  that  one  could  hear  the  faint  report  of  the  ex- 
haust. 

But  it  was  the  ambulances  that  Sara  Lee  looked  for. 
Mostly  they  came  at  night,  a  steady  stream  of  them. 
Sometimes  they  moved  rapidly.  Again  one  would  be 
going  very  slowly,  and  other  machines  would  circle 
impatiently  round  it  and  go  on.  A  silent,  grim  pro- 
cession in  the  moonlight  it  was,  and  it  helped  the 
girl  to  bear  the  solitude  of  those  two  interminable 
days. 

Inside  those  long  gray  cars  with  the  red  crosses 
painted  on  the  tops  —  a  symbol  of  mercy  that  had 
ceased  to  protect  —  inside  those  cars  were  wounded 
men,  men  who  had  perhaps  lain  for  hours  without 
food  or  care.  Surely,  surely  it  was  right  that  she  had 


TOO     THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

come.  The  little  she  could  do  must  count  in  the  great 
total.  She  twisted  Harvey's  ring  on  her  finger  and 
sent  a  little  message  to  him. 

"  You  will  forgive  me  when  you  know,  dear,"  was 
the  message.  "  It  is  so  terrible!  So  pitiful!  " 

Yet  during  the  day  the  square  was  gay  enough. 
Officers  in  spurs  clanked  across,  wide  capes  blowing 
in  the  wind.  Common  soldiers  bought  fruit  and  paper 
bags  of  fried  potatoes  from  the  booths.  Countless 
dogs  fought  under  the  feet  of  passers-by,  and  over  all 
leered  the  sardonic  face  of  Jean  Bart,  pirate  and  pri- 
vateer. 

Sara  Lee  went  out  daily,  but  never  far.  And  she 
practiced  French  with  the  maid,  after  this  fashion: 

"  Draps  de  toile,"  said  the  smiling  maid,  putting  the 
linen  sheets  on  the  bed. 

Sara  Lee  would  repeat  it  some  six  times. 

"  Taies  d'oreiller,"  when  the  pillows  came.  So 
Sara  Lee  called  pillows  by  the  name  of  their  slips  from 
that  time  forward!  Came  a  bright  hour  when  she 
rang  the  bell  for  the  boy  and  asked  for  matches,  which 
she  certainly  did  not  need,  with  entire  success. 

On  the  second  night  Sara  Lee  slept  badly.  At  two 
o'clock  she  heard  a  sound  in  the  hall,  and  putting  on 
her  kimono,  opened  the  door.  On  a  stiff  chair  out- 
side, snoring  profoundly,  sat  Jean,  fully  dressed. 

The  light  from  her  candle  roused  him  and  he  was 
wide  awake  in  an  instant. 

"  Why,  Jean !  "  she  said.  "  Isn't  there  any  place 
for  you  to  sleep  ?  " 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     101 

"  I  am  to  remain  here,  mademoiselle,"  he  replied  in 
English. 

"  But  surely  —  not  because  of  me?  " 

"  It  is  the  captain's  order,"  he  said  briefly. 

"  I  don't  understand.     Why  ?  " 

"  All  sorts  of  people  come  to  this  place,  mademoi- 
selle. But  few  ladies.  It  is  best  that  I  remain  here." 

She  could  not  move  him.  He  had  remained  stand- 
ing while  she  spoke  to  him,  and  now  he  yawned,  striv- 
ing to  conceal  it.  Sara  Lee  felt  very  uncomfortable, 
but  Jean's  attitude  and  voice  alike  were  firm.  She 
thanked  him  and  said  good  night,  but  she  slept  little 
after  that. 

Lying  there  in  the  darkness,  a  warm  glow  of  grati- 
tude to  Henri,  and  a  feeling  of  her  safety  in  his  care, 
wrapped  her  like  a  mantle.  She  wondered  drowsily 
if  Harvey  would  ever  have  thought  of  all  the  small 
things  that  seemed  second  nature  to  this  young  Belgian 
officer. 

She  rather  thought  not. 


IX 

WHILE  she  was  breakfasting  the  next  morning 
there  was  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  thinking  it 
the  maid  she  called  to  her  to  come  in. 

But  it  was' Jean,  an  anxious  Jean,  twisting  his  cap 
in  his  hands. 

"  You  have  had  a  message  from  the  captain,  made- 
moiselle? " 

"  No,  Jean." 

"  He  was  to  have  returned  during  the  night.  He 
has  not  come,  mademoiselle/' 

Sara  Lee  forgot  her  morning  negligee  in  Jean's  har- 
assed face. 

"  But  —  where  did  he  go?  " 

Jean  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  did  not  reply. 

"  Are  you  worried  about  him  ?  " 

"  I  am  anxious,  mademoiselle.  But  I  am  often  anx- 
ious; and  —  he  always  returns." 

He  smiled  almost  sheepishly.  Sara  Lee,  who  had 
no  subtlety  but  a  great  deal  of  intuition,  felt  that  there 
was  a  certain  relief  in  the  smile,  as  though  Jean,  hav- 
ing had  no  message  from  his  master,  was  pleased  that 
she  had  none.  Which  was  true  enough,  at  that.  Also 
she  felt  that  Jean's  one  eye  was  inspecting  her  closely, 
which  was  also  true.  A  new  factor  had  come  into 
Henri's  life  —  by  Jean's  reasoning,  a  new  and  dan- 
eerous  one.  And  there  were  dangers  enough  already. 

10.1 


104    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

Highly  dangerous,  Jean  reflected  in  the  back  of  his 
head  as  he  backed  out  with  a  bow.  A  young  girl  un- 
afraid of  the  morning  sun  and  sitting  at  a  little  break- 
fast table  as  fresh  as  herself  —  that  was  a  picture  for 
a  war-weary  man. 

Jean  forgot  for  a  moment  his  anxiety  for  Henri's 
safety  in  his  fear  for  his  peace  of  mind.  For  a  doubt 
had  been  removed.  The  girl  was  straight.  Jean's  one 
sophisticated  eye  had  grasped  that  at  once.  A  good 
girl,  alone,  and  far  from  home!  And  Henri,  like  all 
soldiers,  woman-hungry  for  good  women,  for  un- 
painted  skins  and  clear  eyes  and  the  freshness  and 
bloom  of  youth. 

All  there,  behind  that  little  breakfast  table  which 
might  so  pleasantly  have  been  laid  for  two. 

Jean  took  a  walk  that  morning,  and  stood  staring  for 
twenty  minutes  into  a  clock  maker's  window,  full  of 
clocks.  After  which  he  drew  out  his  watch  and  looked 
at  the  time ! 

At  two  in  the  afternoon  Sara  Lee  saw  Henri's  car 
come  into  the  square.  It  was,  if  possible,  more  dilapi- 
dated than  before,  and  he  came  like  a  gray  whirlwind, 
scattering  people  and  dogs  out  of  his  way.  Almost 
before  he  had  had  time  to  enter  the  hotel  Sara  Lee 
heard  him  in  the  hall,  and  the  next  moment  he  was 
bowing  before  her. 

"  I  have  been  longer  than  I  expected,"  he  explained. 
"  Have  you  been  quite  comfortable?  " 

Sara  Lee,  however,  was  gazing  at  him  with  startled 
eyes.  He  was  dirty,  unshaven,  and  his  eyes  looked 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     105 

hollow  and  bloodshot.  From  his  neck  to  his  heels  he 
was  smeared  with  mud,  and  his  tidy  tunic  was  torn  into 
ragged  holes. 

"But  you  —  you  have  been  fighting!"  she  gasped. 

"  I  ?  No,  mademoiselle.  There  has  been  no  bat- 
tle." His  eyes  left  her  and  traveled  over  the  room. 
"  They  are  doing  everything  for  you  ?  They  are  at- 
tentive ?  " 

"  Everything  is  splendid,"  said  Sara  Lee.  "  If  you 
won't  tell  me  how  you  got  into  that  condition,  at  least 
you  can  send  your  coat  down  to  me  to  merid." 

"  My  tunic !  "  He  looked  at  it  smilingly.  "  You 
would  do  that?" 

"  I  am  nearly  frantic  for  something  to  do." 

He  smiled,  and  suddenly  bending  down  he  took  her 
hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  You  are  not  only  very  beautiful,  mademoiselle,  but 
you  are  very  good." 

He  went  away  then,  and  Sara  Lee  got  out  her  sew- 
ing things.  The  tunic  came  soon,  carefully  brushed 
and  very  ragged.  But  it  was  not  Jean  who  brought 
it ;  it  was  the  Flemish  boy. 

And  tpstairs  in  a  small  room  with  two  beds  Sara 
Lee  might  have  been  surprised  to  find  Jean,  the  chauf- 
feur, lying  on  one,  while  Henri  shaved  himself  beside 
the  other.  For  Jean,  of  the  ragged  uniform  and  the 
patch  over  one  eye,  was  a  count  of  Belgium,  and  served 
Henri  because  he  loved  him.  And  because,  too,  he  was 
no  longer  useful  in  that  little  army  where  lay  his  heart. 

Sometime  a  book  will  be  written  about  the  Jeans  of 


io6    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

this  war,  the  great  friendships  it  has  brought  forth  be- 
tween men.  And  not  the  least  of  its  stories  will  be 
that  of  this  Jean  of  the  one  eye.  But  its  place  is  not 
here. 

And  perhaps  there  will  be  a  book  about  die  Henris, 
also.  But  not  for  a  long  time,  and  even  then  with  care. 
For  the  heroes  of  one  department  of  an  army  in  the 
field  live  and  die  unsung.  Their  bravest  exploits  are 
buried  in  secrecy.  And  that  is  as  it  must  be.  But  it 
is  a  fine  tale  to  go  untold. 

After  he  had  bathed  and  shaved,  Henri  sat  down  at 
a  tiny  table  and  wrote.  He  drew  a  plan  also,  from  a 
rough  one  before  him.  Then  he  took  a  match  and 
burned  the  original  drawing  until  it  was  but  charred 
black  ashes.  When  he  had  finished  Jean  got  up  from 
the  bed  and  put  on  his  overcoat. 

"To  the  King?  "he  said. 

"  To  the  King,  old  friend." 

Jean  took  the  letter  and  went  out. 

Down  below,  Sara  Lee  sat  with  Henri's  ragged  tunic 
on  her  lap  and  stitched  carefully.  Sometime,  she  re- 
flected, she  would  be  mending  worn  garments  for  an- 
other man,  now  far  away.  A  little  flood  of  tender- 
ness came  over  her.  So  helpless  these  men!  There 
was  so  much  to  do  for  them!  And  soon,  please  God, 
she  would  be  helping  other  tired  and  weary  men,  with 
food,  and  perhaps  a  word  —  when  she  had  acquired 
some  French  —  and  perhaps  a  thread  and  needle. 

She  dined  alone  that  night,  as  usual.  Henri  did  not 
appear,  though  she  had  sent  what  she  suspected  was  his 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     107 

only  tunic  back  to  him  neatly  mended  at  five  o'clock. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Henri  was  sound  asleep.  He 
had  meant  to  rest  only  for  an  hour  a  body  that  was  cry- 
ing aloud  with  fatigue.  But  Jean,  coming  in  quietly, 
had  found  him  sleeping  like  a  child,  and  had  put  his 
own  blanket  over  him  and  left  him.  Henri  slept  until 
morning,  when  Jean,  coming  up  from  his  vigil  outside 
the  American  girl's  door,  found  him  waking  and  rested, 
and  rang  for  coffee. 

Jean  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  and  put  on 
his  shoes  and  puttees.  He  was  a  taciturn  man,  but 
now  he  had  something  to  say  that  he  did  not  like  to 
say.  And  Henri  knew  it. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  his  arms  under  his  head. 
"Come,  let  us  have  it!  It  is,  of  course,  about  the 
American  lady." 

"  It  is,"  Jean  said  bluntly.  "  You  cannot  mix 
women  and  war." 

"  And  you  think  I  am  doing  that?  " 

'*  I  arn  not  an  idiot,"  Jean  growled.  "  You  do  not 
know  what  you  are  doing.  I  do.  She  is  young  and 
lonely.  You  are  young  and  —  not  unattractive  to 
women.  Already  she  turns  pale  when  I  so  much  as 
ask  if  she  has  heard  from  you." 

"You  asked  her  that?" 

"  You  were  gone  much  longer  than " 

"  And  you  thought  I  might  send  her  word,  and  not 
you ! "  Henri's  voice  was  offended.  He  lay  back 
while  the  boy  brought  in  the  morning  coffee  and  rolls. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  something,"  he  said  when  the  boy 


io8    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

had  gone.  "  She  is  betrothed  to  an  American.  She 
wears  a  betrothal  ring.  I  am  to  her  —  the  French 
language !  " 

But  though  Henri  laughed  Jean  remained  grave  and 
brooding.  For  Henri  had  not  said  what  Sara  Lee  al- 
ready was  to  him. 

It  was  later  in  the  morning  that  Henri  broached  the 
subject  again.  They  were  in  the  courtyard  of  an  old 
house,  working  over  the  engine  of  the  car. 

"  I  think  I  have  found  a  location  for  the  young 
American  lady,"  he  said. 

Jean  hammered  for  a  considerable  time  at  a  refrac- 
tory rim. 

"  And  where  ?  "  he  asked  at  last. 

Henri  named  the  little  town.  Like  Henri's  family 
name,  it  must  not  be  told.  Too  many  things  happened 
there,  and  perhaps  it  is  even  now  Henri's  headquarters. 
For  that  portion  of  the  line  has  changed  very  little. 

Jean  fell  to  renewed  hammering. 

"If  you  will  be  silent  I  shall  explain  a  plan,"  Henri 
said  in  a  cautious  tone.  "  She  will  make  soup,  with 
help  which  we  shall  find.  And  if  coming  in  for  re- 
freshments a  soldier  shall  leave  a  letter  for  me  it  is 
natural,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  She  will  suspect,  of  course." 

"  I  think  not.  And  she  reads  no  French.  None 
"whatever." 

Yet  Jean's  suspicions  were  not  entirely  allayed.  The 
plan  had  its  advantages.  It  was  important  that  Henri 
receive  certain  reports,  and  already  the  hotel  whispered 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     109 

that  Henri  was  of  the  secret  service.  It  brought  him 
added  deference,  of  course,  but  additional  danger. 

So  Jean  accepted  the  plan,  but  with  reservation. 
And  it  was  not  long  afterward  that  he  said  to  Sara 
Lee,  in  French :  "  There  is  a  spider  on  your  neck, 
mademoiselle." 

But  Sara  Lee  only  said,  "  I'm  sorry,  Jean ;  you'll 
have  to  speak  English  to  me  for  a  while,  I'm  afraid." 

And  though  he  watched  her  for  five  minutes  she  did 
not  put  her  hand  to  her  neck. 

However,  that  was  later  on.  That  afternoon  Henri 
spent  an  hour  with  the  Minister  of  War.  And  at  the 
end  of  that  time  he  said :  "  Thank  you,  Baron.  I 
think  you  will  not  regret  it.  America  must  learn  the 
truth,  and  how  better  than  through  those  friendly  peo- 
ple who  come  to  us  to  help  ?  " 

It  is  as  well  to  state,  however,  that  he  left  the  Mip- 
ister  of  War  with  the  undoubted  impression  that  Miss 
Sara  Lee  Kennedy  was  a  spinster  of  uncertain  years. 

Sara  Lee  packed  her  own  suitcase  that  afternoon, 
doing  it  rather  nervously  because  Henri  was  standing 
in  the  room  by  the  window  waiting  for  it.  He  had 
come  in  as  matter-of-factly  as  Harvey  had  entered  the 
parlor  at  Aunt  Harriet's,  except  that  he  carried  in  his 
arms  some  six  towels,  a  cake  of  soap  and  what  looked 
suspiciously  like  two  sheets. 

"  The  house  I  have  under  consideration,"  he  said, 
"  has  little  to  recommend  it  but  the  building,  and  even 

that The  occupants  have  gone  away,  and  —  you 

are  not  a  soldier." 


no    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

Sara  Lee  eyed  the  bundle. 

"  1  don't  need  sheets,"  she  expostulated. 

"  There  are  but  two.  And  Jean  has  placed  blankets 
in  the  car.  You  must  have  a  pillow  also.'' 

He  calmly  took  one  of  the  hotel  pillows  from  the 
bed. 

"  What  else  ? "  he  asked  calmly.  "  Cigarettes  ? 
But  no,  you  do  not  smoke." 

Sara  Lee  eyed  him  with  something  very  like  despair. 

"  Aren't  you  ever  going  to  let  me  think  for  myself  ?  " 

"  Would  you  have  thought  of  these?  "  he  demanded 
triumphantly.  "You  —  you  think  only  of  soup  and 
tired  soldiers.  Some  one  must  think  of  you." 

And  there  was  a  touch  of  tenderness  in  his  voice. 
Sara  Lee  felt  it  and  trembled  slightly.  He  was  so  fine, 
and  he  must  not  think  of  her  that  way.  It  was  not 
real.  It  couldn't  be.  Men  were  lonely  here,  where 
everything  was  hard  and  cruel.  They  wanted  some  of 
the  softness  of  life,  and  all  of  kindness  and  sweetness 
that  she  could  give  should  be  Henri's.  But  she  must 
make  it  clear  that  there  could  never  be  anything  more. 

There  was  a  tightness  about  her  mouth  as  she  folded 
the  white  frock. 

"  I  know  that  garment,"  he  said  boyishly.  "  Do  you 
remember  the  night  you  wore  it?  And  how  we  wan- 
dered in  the  square  and  made  the  plan  that  has  brought 
us  together  again  ?  " 

Sara  Lee  reached  down  into  her  suitcase  and  brought 
up  Harvey's  picture. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     in 

•'  I  would  like  you  to  see  this,"  she  said  a  little 
breathlessly.  "  It  is  the  man  I  am  to  marry." 

For  a  moment  she  thought  Henri  was  not  going  to 
take  it.  But  he  came,  rather  slowly,  and  held  out  his 
hand  for  it.  He  went  with  it  to  the  window  and  stood 
there  for  some  time  looking  down  at  it. 

"  When  are  you  going  to  marry  him,  mademoi- 
selle?" 

"  As  soon  as  I  go  back." 

Sara  Lee  had  expected  some  other  comment,  but  he 
made  none.  He  put  the  photograph  very  quietly  on 
the  bed  before  her,  and  gathered  up  the  linen  and  the 
pillow  in  his  arms. 

"  I  shall  send  for  your  luggage,  mademoiselle.  And 
you  will  find  me  at  the  car  outside,  waiting." 

And  so  it  was  that  a  very  silent  Henri  sat  with  Jean 
going  out  to  that  strange  land  which  was  to  be  Sara 
Lee's  home  for  many  months.  And  a  very  silent  Sara 
Lee,  flanked  with  pillow  and  blankets,  who  sat  back 
alone  and  tried  to  recall  the  tones  of  Harvey's  voice. 

And  failed. 


X 

FROM  Dunkirk  to  the  Front,  the  road,  after  the 
Belgian   line   was   passed,    was   lightly  guarded. 
Henri  came  out  of  a  reverie  to  explain  to  Sara  Lee. 

"  We  have  not  many  men,"  he  said.  "  And  those 
(hat  remain  are  holding  the  line.  It  is  very  weary,  our 
army." 

Now  at  home  Uncle  James  had  thought  very  highly 
of  the  Belgian  Army.  He  had  watched  the  fight  they 
made,  and  he  had  tried  to  interest  Sara  Lee  in  it.  But 
without  much  result.  She  had  generally  said:  "Isn't 
it  wonderful !  "  or  "  horrible,"  as  the  case  might  be, 
and  put  out  of  her  mind  as  soon  as  possible  the  ring- 
ing words  he  had  been  reading.  But  she  had  not  for- 
gotten, she  found.  They  came  back  to  her  as  she  rode 
through  that  deserted  countryside.  Henri,  glancing 
back  somewhat  later,  found  her  in  tears. 

He  climbed  back  at  once  into  the  rear  of  the  car  and 
sat  down  beside  her. 

"  You  are  homesick,  I  think?  " 

"  Yes.  But  not  for  myself.  I  am  just  homesick 
for  all  the  people  who  have  lost  their  homes.  You  — - 
and  Jean,  and  all  the  rest." 

"  Some  day  I  shall  tell  you  about  my  home  and  what 
has  happened  to  it,"  he  said  gravely.  "  Not  now.  It 
is  not  pleasant.  But  you  must  remember  this:  We 
are  going  back  home,  we  Belgians."  And  after  a  little 
pause :  "  Just  as  you  are." 

113 


1 14    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

He  lapsed  into  silence  after  that,  and  Sara  Lee,  steal- 
ing a  glance  at  him,  saw  his  face  set  and  hard.  She 
had  a  purely  maternal  impulse  to  reach  over  and  pat 
his  hand. 

Jean  did  not  like  Henri's  shift  to  the  rear  of  the 
car.  He  drove  with  a  sort  of  irritable  feverishness, 
until  Henri  leaned  over  and  touched  him  on  the  shoul- 
der. 

"  We  have  mademoiselle  with  us,  Jean,"  he  said  in 
French. 

"  It  is  not  difficult  to  believe,"  growled  Jean.  But 
he  slackened  his  pace  somewhat. 

So  far  the  road  had  been  deserted.  Now  they  had 
come  up  to  a  stream  of  traffic  flowing  slowly  toward 
the  Front.  Armored  cars,  looking  tall  and  top-heavy, 
rumbled  and  jolted  along.  Many  lorries,  one  limou- 
sine containing  a  general,  a  few  Paris  buses,  all 
smeared  a  dingy  gray  and  filled  with  French  soldiers, 
numberless  and  nondescript  open  machines,  here  and 
there  a  horse-drawn  vehicle  —  these  filled  the  road. 
In  and  out  among  them  Jean  threaded  his  way,  while 
Sara  Lee  grew  crimson  with  the  effort  to  see  it  all, 
and  Henri  sat  very  stiff  and  silent. 

At  a  crossroads  they  were  halted  by  troops  who  had 
fallen  out  for  a  rest.  The  men  stood  at  ease,  and 
stared  their  fill  at  Sara  Lee.  Save  for  a  few  weary 
peasants,  most  of  them  had  seen  no  women  for  months. 
But  they  were  respectful,  if  openly  admiring.  And 
their  admiration  of  her  was  nothing  to  Sara  Lee's  feel- 
ing toward  them.  She  loved  theti  aK  —  boys  witV, 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     115 

their  first  straggly  beards  on  their  chins;  older  men, 
looking  worn  and  tired;  French  and  Belgian;  smiling 
and  sad.  But  most  of  all,  for  Uncle  James'  sake,  she 
loved  the  Belgians. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,"  she  said  breathlessly  to  Henri. 
*'  It  is  like  a  dream  come  true.  And  I  shall  help.  You 
look  doubtful  sometimes,  but  I  am  sure." 

"  You  are  heaven  sent,"  Henri  replied  gravely. 

They  turned  into  a  crossroad  after  a  time,  and  there 
in  a  little  village  Sara  Lee  found  her  new  home.  A 
strange  village  indeed,  unoccupied  and  largely  de- 
stroyed. Piles  of  bricks  and  plaster  lined  the  streets. 
Broken  glass  was  everywhere.  Jean  blew  out  a  tire 
Anally,  because  of  the  glass,  and  they  were  obliged  to 
walk  the  remainder  of  the  way. 

"  A  poor  place,  mademoiselle,"  Henri  said  as  they 
went  along.  "  A  peaceful  little  town,  and  quite  beau- 
tiful, once.  And  it  harbored  no  troops.  But  every- 
thing is  meat  for  the  mouths  of  their  guns." 

Sara  Lee  stopped  and  looked  about  her.  Her  heart 
was  beating  fast,  but  her  lips  were  steady  enough. 

"  And  it  is  here  that  I " 

"  A  little  distance  down  the  street.  You  must  see 
before  you  decide." 

Steady,  passionless  firing  was  going  on,  not  near, 
but  far  away,  like  low  thunder  before  a  summer  storm. 
She  was  for  months  to  live,  to  eat  and  sleep  and  dream 
to  that  rumbling  from  the  Ypres  salient,  to  waken  when 
it  ceased  or  to  look  up  from  her  work  at  the  strange 
silence.  But  it  was  new  to  her  then,  and  terrible. 


u6    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"Do  they  still  shell  this  —  this  town?"  she  asked, 
rather  breathlessly. 

"  Not  now.  They  have  done  their  work.  Of 
course "  he  did  not  finish. 

Sara  Lee's  heart  slowed  down  somewhat.  After  all, 
she  had  asked  to  be  near  the  Front.  And  that  meant 
guns  and  such  destruction  as  was  all  about  her.  Only 
one  thing  troubled  her. 

"  It  is  rather  far  from  the  trenches,  isn't  it?  " 

He  smiled  slightly. 

"  Far!  It  is  not  very  far.  Not  so  far  as  I  would 
wish,  mademoiselle.  But,  to  do  what  you  desire,  it  is 
the  best  I  have  to  offer." 

"  How  far  away  are  the  trenches  ?  " 

"A  quarter  of  a  mile  beyond  those  poplar  trees." 
He  indicated  on  a  slight  rise  a  row  of  great  trees 
broken  somewhat  but  not  yet  reduced  to  the  twisted 
skeletons  they  were  to  become  later  on.  In  a  long 
line  they  faced  the  enemy  like  sentinels,  winter-quiet 
but  dauntless,  and  behind  them  lay  the  wreck  of  the 
little  village,  quiet  and  empty. 

"  Will  the  men  know  I  am  here  ?  "  Sara  Lee  asked 
anxiously. 

"  But,  yes,  mademoiselle.  At  «night  they  come  up 
from  the  trenches,  and  fresh  troops  take  their  places. 
They  come  up  this  street  and  go  on  to  wherever  they 
are  to  rest.  And  when  they  find  that  a  house  of  — *  of 
mercy  is  here  —  and  soup,  they  will  come.  More 
you  wish." 

"Belgian  soldiers?" 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     117 

"  Only  Belgian  soldiers.  That  is  as  you  want  it  to 
•be,  I  think." 

"If  only  I  spoke  French!  " 

"  You  will  learn.  And  in  the  meantime,  made- 
moiselle, I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  finding  you  a 
.servant  —  a  young  peasant  woman.  And  you  will  also 
have  a  soldier  always  on  guard." 

Something  that  had  been  in  the  back  of  Sara  Lee's 
mind  for  some  time  suddenly  went  away.  She  had 
been  thinking  of  Aunt  Harriet  and  the  Ladies'  Aid 
Society  of  the  Methodist  Church.  She  had,  in  fact, 
been  wondering  how  they  would  feel  when  they  learned 
that  she  was  living  alone,  the  only  woman  among  thou- 
sands of  men.  It  had,  oddly  enough,  never  occurred 
to  her  before. 

"  You  have  thought  of  everything,"  she  said  grate- 
fully. 

But  Henri  said  nothing.  He  had  indeed  thought  of 
•everything  with  a  vengeance,  with  the  net  result  that 
he  was  not  looking  at  Sara  Lee  more  than  he  could 
help. 

These  Americans  were  strange.  An  American  girl 
would  cross  the  seas,  and  come  here  alone  with  him  — 
a  man  and  human.  And  she  would  take  for  granted 
that  he  would  do  what  he  was  doing  for  love  of  his 
kind  —  which  was  partly  true ;  and  she  would  be  beau- 
tiful and  sweet  and  amiable  and  quite  unself-conscious. 
And  then  she  would  go  back  home,  warm  of  heart  with 
gratitude,  and  marry  the  man  of  the  picture. 

The  village  had  but  one  street,  and  that  deserted  and 


n8    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

m  ruins.  Behind  its  double  row  of  houses,  away  from 
the  enemy,  lay  the  fields,  a  muddy  canal  and  more 
poplar  trees.  And  from  far  away,  toward  Ypres, 
there  came  constantly  that  somewhat  casual  booming 
of  artillery  which  marked  the  first  winter  of  the  war. 

The  sound  of  the  guns  had  first  alarmed,  then  inter- 
ested Sa/a  Lee.  It  was  detached  then,  far  away.  It 
meant  little  to  her.  It  was  only  later,  when  she  saw 
some  i>f  the  results  of  the  sounds  she  heard,  that  they 
became  significant.  But  this  is  not  a  tale  of  the  wound- 
ing of  men.  There  are  many  such.  This  is  the  story 
of  a  little  house  of  mercy,  and  of  a  girl  with  a  daunt- 
less spirit,  and  of  two  men  who  loved  her.  Only  that. 

The  maid  Henri  had  found  was  already  in  the  house,, 
sweeping.  Henri  presented  her  to  Sara  Lee,  and  he 
also  brought  a  smiling  little  Belgian  boy,  in  uniform, 
and  with  a  rifle. 

"  Your  staff,  mademoiselle!  "  he  said.  "And  your 
residence ! " 

Sara  Lee  looked  about  her.  With  the  trifling  ex- 
ception that  there  was  no  roof,  it  was  whole.  And  the 
roof  was  not  necessary,  for  the  floors  of  the  upper 
story  served  instead.  There  was  a  narrow  passage 
with  a  room  on  either  side,  and  a  tiny  kitchen  behind. 

Henri  threw  open  a  door  on  the  right. 

"  Your  bedroom,"  he  said.  "  Well  furnished,  as 
you  will  see.  It  should  be,  since  there  has  been  brought 
here  all  the  furniture  not  destroyed  in  the  village." 

His  blacker  mood  had  fallen  away  before  her  naive 
delight.  He  went  about  smiling  boyishly,  showing  her 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     119 

the  kettles  in  the  kitchen;  the  supply,  already  so  rare, 
of  firewood;  the  little  stove.  But  he  stiffened  some- 
what when  she  placed  her  hand  rather  timidly  on  his 
arm. 

"  How  am  I  ever  to  thank  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  By  doing  much  good.  And  by  never  going  be- 
yond the  poplar  trees." 

She  promised  both  very  earnestly. 

But  she  was  a  litcle  sad  as  she  followed  Henri  about, 
he  volubly  expatiating  on  such  advantages  as  plenty  of 
air  owing  to  the  absence  of  a  roof ;  and  the  attraction 
of  the  stove,  which  he  showed  much  like  a  salesman 
anxious  to  make  a  sale.  "  Such  a  stove !  "  he  finished 
contentedly.  "  It  will  make  soup  even  in  your  absence, 
mademoiselle!  Our  peasants  eat  much  soup;  there- 
fore it  is  what  you  would  call  a  trained  stove." 

Before  Sara  Lee's  eyes  came  a  picture  of  Harvey 
and  the  Leete  house,  its  white  dining  room,  its  bay 
window  for  plants,  its  comfortable  charm  and  pretti- 
ness.  And  Harvey's  face,  as  he  planned  it  for  her  — 
anxious,  pleading,  loving.  She  drew  a  long  breath. 

If  Henri  noticed  her  abstraction  he  ignored  it.  He 
was  all  over  the  little  house.  One  moment  he  was  in- 
structing Marie  volubly,  to  her  evident  confusion.  On 
Rene,  the  guard,  he  descended  like  a  young  cyclone, 
with  warnings  for  mademoiselle's  safety  and  comfon.. 
He  was  everywhere,  sitting  on  the  bed  to  see  if  it  war 
soft,  tramping  hard  on  the  upper  floor  to  discover  if 
any  plaster  might  loosen  below,  and  pausing  in  that 


120    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

process  to  look  keenly  at  a  windmill  in  the  field  be- 
hind. 

When  he  came  down  it  was  to  say :  "  You  are  not 
entirely  alone  in  the  village,  after  all,  mademoiselle. 
The  miller  has  come  back.  I  shall  visit  him  now  and 
explain." 

He  found  Sara  Lee,  however,  still  depressed.  She 
was  sitting  in  a  low  chair  in  the  kitchen  gazing  thought- 
fully at  the  stove. 

"  I  am  here,"  she  said.  "  And  here  is  the  house,  and 
a  stove,  and  —  everything.  But  there  are  no  shops ; 
and  what  shall  I  make  my  soup  out  of  ?  " 

Henri  stared  at  her  rather  blankly. 

"  True ! "  he  said.  "  Very  true.  And  I  never 
thought  of  it!" 

Then  suddenly  they  both  laughed,  the  joyous  ring- 
ing laugh  of  ridiculous  youth,  which  can  see  its  own 
absurdities  and  laugh  at  them. 

Henri  counted  off  on  his  fingers. 

"  I  thought  of  water,"  he  said,  "  and  a  house,  and 
firewood,  and  kettles  and  furniture.  And  there  I 
ceased  thinking." 

It  was  dusk  now.  Marie  lifted  the  lid  from  the 
stove,  and  a  warm  red  glow  of  reflected  light  filled  the 
little  kitchen.  It  was  warm  and  cozy;  the  kettle  sang 
like  the  purring  of  a  cat.  And  something  else  that  had 
troubled  Sara  Lee  came  out. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  "  if  you  are  doing  all  this 
only  because  I  —  well,  because  I  persuaded  you.'' 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     121 

Which  she  had  not.  "  Do  the  men  really  need  me 
here?" 

11  Need  you,  mademoiselle?  " 

"  Do  they  need  what  little  I  can  give  ?  They  were 
smiling,  all  the  ones  I  saw." 

"  A  Belgian  soldier  always  smiles.  Even  when  he 
is  fighting."  His  voice  had  lost  its  gayety  and  had 
taken  on  a  deeper  note.  "  Mademoiselle,  I  have 
brought  you  here,  where  I  can  think  of  no  other  woman 
who  would  have  the  courage  to  come,  because  you  are 
needed.  I  cannot  promise  you  entire  safety  " —  his 
mouth  tightened  — "  but  I  can  promise  you  work  and 
gratitude.  Such  gratitude,  mademoiselle,  as  you  may 
never  know  again." 

That  reassured  her.  But  in  her  practical  mind  the 
matter  of  supplies  loomed  large.  She  brought  the 
matter  up  again  directly. 

"  It  is  to  be  hot  chocolate  and  soup?  "  he  asked. 

"  Both,  if  I  find  I  have  enough  money.  Soup  only, 
perhaps." 

"  And  soup  takes  meat,  of  course." 

"  It  should,  to  be  strengthening." 

Henri  looked  up,  to  see  Jean  in  the  doorway  smiling 
grimly. 

"  It  is  very  simple,"  Jean  said  to  him  in  French. 
"  You  have  no  other  duties  of  course ;  so  each  day  you 
shall  buy  in  the  market  place  at  Dunkirk,  with  Ameri- 
can money.  And  I  shall  become  a  delivery  boy  and 
bring  out  food  for  mademoiselle,  and  whatever  is 
needed." 


122    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

Henri  smiled  back  at  him  cheerfully.  "  An  excellent 
plan,  Jean,"  he  said.  "  Not  every  day,  but  frequently." 

Jean  growled  and  disappeared. 

However,  there  was  the  immediate  present  to  think 
of,  and  while  Jean  thawed  his  hands  at  the  fire  and 
Sara  Lee  was  taking  housewifely  stock  of  her  new 
home,  Henri  disappeared. 

He  came  back  in  a  half  hour,  carrying  in  a  small 
basket  butter,  eggs,  bread  and  potatoes. 

"  The  miller!  "  he  explained  cheerfully  to  Sara  Lee. 
"  He  has  still  a  few  hens,  and  hidden  somewhere  a  cow. 
We  can  have  milk  —  is  there  a  pail  for  Marie  to  take 
to  the  mill  ?  —  and  bread  and  an  omelet.  That  is  a 
meal !  " 

There  was  but  one  lamp,  which  hung  over  the  kitchen 
stove.  The  room  across  from  Sara  Lee's  bedroom 
contained  a  small  round  dining  table  and  chairs.  Sara 
Lee,  enveloped  in  a  large  pinafore  apron,  made  the 
omelet  in  the  kitchen.  Marie  brought  a  pail  of  fresh 
milk.  Henri,  with  a  towel  over  his  left  arm,  and  in 
absurd  mimicry  of  a  Parisian  waiter,  laid  the  table ; 
and  Jean,  dour  Jean,  caught  a  bit  of  the  infection,  and 
finding  four  bottles  set  to  work  with  his  pocketknife 
to  fit  candles  into  their  necks. 

Standing  in  corners,  smiling,  useless  against  the 
cheerful  English  that  flowed  from  the  kitchen  stove 
to  the  dining  room  and  back  again,  were  Rene  and 
Marie.  It  was  of  no  use  to  attempt  to  help.  Did  the 
fire  burn  low,  it  was  the  young  officer  who  went,  out 
for  fresh  wood.  But  Rene  could  not  permit  that 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     123 

twice.  He  brought  in  great  armfuls  of  firewood  and 
piled  them  neatly  by  the  stove. 

Henri  was  absurdly  happy  again.  He  would  come 
to  the  door  gravely,  with  Sara  Lee's  little  pnrase  book 
ir  hand,  and  read  from  it  in  a  solemn  tone : 

"  '  Shall  we  have  duck  or  chicken?  '  '  Where  can 
we  get  a  good  dinner  at  a  moderate  price  ?  '  *  Waiter, 
you  have  spilled  wine  on  my  dress.'  '  Will  you  havt 
a  cigar?  '  '  No,  thank  you.  I  prefer  a  pipe.' ' 

And  Sara  Lee  beat  up  the  eggs  and  found,  after  a 
bad  moment,  some  salt  in  a  box,  and  then  poured  her 
omelet  into  the  pan.  She  was  very  anxious  that  it  be 
a  good  omelet.  She  must  make  good  her  claim  as  a 
cook  or  Henri's  sublime  faith  in  her  would  die. 

It  was  a  divine  omelet.  Even  Jean  said  so.  They 
sat,  the  three  of  them,  in  the  cold  little  dining  room 
and  never  knew  that  it  was  cold,  and  they  ate  pro- 
digious quantities  of  omelet  and  bread  and  butter,  and 
bully  beef  out  of  a  tin,  and  drank  a  great  deal  of  milk. 

Even  Jean  thawed  at  last,  under  the  influence  of  food 
and  Sara  Lee.  Before  the  meal  was  over  he  was  plan- 
ning how  to  get  her  supplies  to  her  and  making  notes 
on  a  piece  of  paper  as  to  what  she  would  need  at  once. 
They  adjourned  to  Sara  Lee's  bedroom,  where  Marie 
had  kindled  a  fire  in  the  little  iron  stove,  and  sat  there 
in  the  warmth  with  two  candles,  still  planning.  By 
that  time  Sara  Lee  had  quite  forgotten  that  at  home 
one  did  not  have  visitors  in  one's  bedroom. 

Suddenly  Henri  held  up  his  hand. 

"  Listen !  "  he  said. 


i24    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

That  was  the  first  time  Sara  Lee  had  ever  heard  the 
quiet  shuffling  step  of  tired  men,  leaving  their  trenches 
under  cover  of  darkness.  Henri  threw  his  military 
cape  over  her  shoulders  and  she  stood  in  the  dark  door- 
way, watching. 

The  empty  street  was  no  longer  empty.  From  gut- 
ter to  gutter  flowed  a  stream  of  men,  like  a  sluggish 
river  which  narrowed  where  a  fallen  house  partly  filled 
the  way;  not  talking,  not  singing,  just  moving,  bent 
under  their  heavy  and  mud-covered  equipment.  Here 
and  there  the  clack  of  wooden  sabots  on  the  cobbles 
told  of  one  poor  fellow  not  outfitted  with  leather  shoes. 
The  light  of  a  match  here  and  there  showed  some  few 
lucky  enough  to  have  still  remaining  cigarettes,  and  re- 
vealed also,  in  the  immediate  vicinity,  a  white  bandage 
or  two.  Some  few,  recognizing  Henri's  officer's  cap, 
saluted.  Most  of  them  stumbled  on,  too  weary  to  so 
much  as  glance  aside. 

Nothing  that  Sara  Lee  had  dreamed  of  war  was  like 
this.  This  was  dreary  and  sodden  and  hopeless. 
Those  fresh  troops  at  the  crossroads  that  day  had  been 
blithe  and  smiling.  There  had  been  none  of  the  glitter 
and  panoply  of  war,  but  there  had  been  movement,  the 
beating  of  a  drum,  the  sharp  cries  of  officers  as  the 
lines  re-formed. 

Here  there  were  no  lines.  Just  such  a  stream  of 
men  as  at  home  might  issue  at  night  from  a  coal  mine, 
too  weary  for  speech.  Only  here  they  were  packed 
together  closely,  and  they  did  not  speak,  and  some  of 
them  were  wounded. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     125 

"  There  are  so  many !  "  she  whispered  to  Henri. 
"  A  hundred  such  efforts  as  mine  would  not  be 
enough." 

"  I  would  to  God  there  were  more !  "  Henri  replied, 
through  shut  teeth. 

"  Listen,  mademoiselle,"  he  said  later.  "  You  can- 
not do  all  the  kind  work  of  the  world.  But  you  can 
do  your  part.  And  you  will  start  by  caring  for  only 
such  as  are  wounded  or  ill.  The  others  can  go  on. 
But  every  night  some  twenty  or  thirty,  or  even  more, 
will  come  to  your  door  —  men  slightly  wounded  or  too 
weary  to  go  on  without  a  rest.  And  for  those  there 
will  be  a  chair  by  the  fire,  and  something  hot,  or  per- 
haps a  clean  bandage.  It  sounds  small?  But  in  a 
month,  think !  You  will  have  given  comfort  to  per- 
haps a  thousand  men.  You  —  alone !  " 

"I  —  alone!"  she  said  in  a  queer  choking  voice. 
"  And  what  about  you  ?  It  is  you  who  have  made  it 
possible." 

But  Henri  was  looking  down  the  street  to  where  the 
row  of  poplars  hid  what  lay  beyond.  Far  beyond  a 
star  shell  had  risen  above  the  flat  fields  and  floated 
there,  a  pure  and  lovely  thing,  shedding  its  white  light 
over  the  terrain  below.  It  gleamed  for  some  thirty 
seconds  and  went  out. 

"  Like  that !  "  Henri  said  to  her,  but  in  French. 
"  Like  that  you  are  to  me.  Bright  and  shining  —  and 
so  soon  gone." 

Sara  Lee  thought  he  had  asked  her  if  she  was  cold. 


x: 

THE  girl  was  singularly  adaptable.  In  a  few  days 
it  was  as  though  she  had  been  for  years  in  her 
little  ruined  house.  She  was  very  happy,  though  there 
was  scarcely  a  day  when  her  heart  was  not  wrung. 
Such  young-old  faces!  Such  weary  men!  And  such 
tales  of  wretchedness! 

She  got  the  tales  by  intuition  rather  than  by  words, 
though  she  was  picking  up  some  French  at  that. 
Marie  would  weep  openly,  at  times.  The  most  fre- 
quent story  was  of  no  news  from  the  country  held  by 
the  Germans,  of  families  left  with  nothing  and  prob- 
ably starving.  The  first  inquiry  was  always  for  news. 
Had  the  American  lady  any  way  to  make  inquiry  ? 

In  time  Sara  Lee  began  to  take  notes  of  names  and 
addresses,  and  through  Mr.  Travers,  in  London,  and 
the  Relief  Commission,  in  Belgium,  bits  of  informa- 
tion came  back.  A  certain  family  was  in  England  at 
a  village  in  Surrey.  Of  another  a  child  had  died. 
Here  was  one  that  could  not  be  located,  and  another 
reported  massacred  during  the  invasion. 

Later  on  Sara  Lee  was  to  find  her  little  house  grow- 
ing famous,  besieged  by  anxious  soldiers  who  besought 
her  efforts,  so  that  she  used  enormous  numbers  of 
stamps  and  a  great  deal  of  effort.  But  that  was  later 
on.  And  when  that  time  came  she  turned  to  the  work 
as  a  refuge  from  her  thoughts.  For  days  were  com- 
ing when  Sara  Lee  did  not  want  to  think. 

127 


128    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

But  like  all  big  things  the  little  house  made  a  humble 
beginning.  A 'mere  handful  of  men,  daring  the  gibes 
of  their  comrades,  stopped  in  that  first  night  the  door 
stood  open,  with  its  invitation  of  firelight  and  candles. 
But  these  few  went  away  with  a  strange  story  —  of  a 
beautiful  American,  and  hot  soup,  and  even  a  cigar- 
ette apiece.  That  had  been  Henri's  contribution,  the 
cigarettes.  And  soon  the  fame  of  the  little  house  went 
up  and  dov/ft  the  trenches,  and  it  was  like  to  die  of 
overpopularity. 

It  was  at  night  that  iiifi  little  house  of  mercy  bloomed 
like  a  flower.  During  the  daytime  it  was  quiet,  and  it 
was  then,  as  time  went  on,  that  Sara  Lee  wrote  her 
letters  home  and  to  England,  and  sent  her  lists  of 
names  to  be  investigated.  But  from  the  beginning 
there  was  much  to  do.  Vegetables  were  to  be  prepared 
for  the  soup,  Marie  must  find  and  bring  in  milk  for 
the  chocolate,  Rene  must  lay  aside  his  rifle  and  chop 
firewood. 

One  worry,  however,  disappeared  with  the  days. 
Henri  was  proving  a  clever  buyer.  The  money  she 
sent  in  secured  marvels.  Only  Jean  knew,  or  ever 
knew,  just  how  much  of  Henri's  steadily  decreasing 
funds  went  to  that  buying.  Certainly  not  Sara  Lee. 
And  Jean  expostulated  only  once  —  to  be  met  by  such 
blazing  fury  as  set  him  sullen  for  two  days. 

"  I  am  doing  this,"  Henri  finished,  a  trifle  ashamed 
of  himself,  "  not  for  mademoiselle,  but  for  our  army. 
And  since  when  have  you  felt  that  the  best  we  can  give 
is  too  much  for  such  a  purpose?  " 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     129 

Which  was,  however  lofty,  only  a  part  of  the 
truth. 

So  supplies  came  in  plentifully,  and  Sara  Lee  pared 
vegetables  and  sang  a  bit  under  her  breath,  and  glowed 
with  good  will  when  at  night  the  weary  vanguard  of  a 
weary  little  army  stopped  at  her  door  and  scraped  the 
mud  off  its  boots  and  edged  in  shyly. 

She  was  very  happy,  and  her  soup  was  growing  fa- 
mous. It  is  true  that  the  beef  she  used  was  not  often 
beef,  but  she  did  not  know  that,  and  merely  complained 
that  the  meat  was  stringy.  Now  and  then  there  was 
no  beef  at  all,  and  she  used  hares  instead.  On  quiet 
•days,  when  there  was  little  firing  beyond  the  poplar 
trees,  she  went  about  with  a  basket  through  the  neg- 
lected winter  gardens  of  the  town.  There  were  Brus- 
sels sprouts,  and  sometimes  she  found  in  a  cellar 
•carrots  or  cabbages.  She  had  potatoes  always. 

It  was  at  night  then,  from  seven  in  the  evening  until 
one,  that  the  little  house  was  busiest.  Word  had  gone 
out  through  the  trenches  beyond  the  poplar  trees  that 
slightly  wounded  men  needing  rest  before  walking  back 
to  their  billets,  exhausted  and  sick  men,  were  welcome 
to  the  little  house.  It  was  soon  necessary  to  give  the 
officers  tickets  for  the  men.  Rene  took  them  in  at  the 
door,  with  his  rifle  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm,  and  he  was 
as  implacable  as  a  ticket  taker  at  the  opera. 

Never  once  in  all  the  months  of  her  life  there  did 
Sara  Lee  have  an  ugly  word,  an  offensive  glance.  But, 
though  she  never  knew  this,  many  half  articulate  and 
wholly  earnest  prayers  were  offered  for  her  in  those 


130    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

little  churches  behind  the  lines  where  sometimes  the 
men  slept,  and  often  they  prayed. 

She  was  very  businesslike.  She  sent  home  to  the 
Ladies'  Aid  Society  a  weekly  record  of  what  had  been 
done:  So  many  bowls  of  soup;  so  many  cups  of 
chocolate;  so  many  minor  injuries  dressed.  Because, 
very  soon,  she  found  first  aid  added  to  her  activities. 
She  sickened  somewhat  at  first.  Later  she  allowed  to 
Marie  much  of  the  serving  of  food,  and  in  the  little 
sallc  a  manger  she  had  ready  on  the  table  basins,  water, 
cotton,  iodine  and  bandages. 

Henri  explained  the  method  to  her. 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  cleanliness,"  he  said.  "  First  one 
washes  the  wound  and  then  there  is  the  iodine.  Then 
cotton,  a  bandage,  and  —  a  surgeon  could  do  little 
more." 

Henri  and  Jean  came  often.  And  more  than  once 
during  the  first  ten  days  Jean  spent  the  night  rolled  in 
a  blanket  by  the  kitchen  fire,  and  Henri  disappeared. 
He  was  always  back  in  the  morning,  however,  looking 
dirty  and  very  tired.  Sara  Lee  sewed  more  than  one 
rent  for  him,  those  days,  but  she  was  strangely  in- 
curious. It  was  as  though,  where  everything  was 
strange,  Henri's  erratic  comings  and  goings  were  but 
a  part  with  the  rest. 

Then  one  night  the  unexpected  happened.  The  vil- 
lage was  shelled. 

Sara  Lee  had  received  her  first  letter  from  Harvey 
that  day.  The  maid  at  Morley's  had  forwarded  it  to 
her,  and  Henri  had  brought  it  up. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    131 

"  I  think  I  have  brought  you  something  you  wish  for 
very  much,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  her 

"Mutton?"  she  inquired  anxiously. 

"Better  than  that." 

"Sugar?" 

"  A  letter,  mademoiselle." 

Afterward  he  could  not  quite  understand  the  way  she 
had  suddenly  drawn  in  her  breath.  He  had  no  mem- 
ory, as  she  had,  of  Harvey's  obstinate  anger  at  her 
going,  his  conviction  that  she  was  doing  a  thing  crim- 
inally wrong  and  cruel. 

"  Give  it  to  me,  please." 

She  took  it  into  her  room  and  closed  the  door. 
When  she  came  out  again  she  was  composed  and  quiet, 
but  rather  white.  Poor  Henri!  He  was  half  mad 
that  day  with  jealousy.  Her  whiteness  he  construed 
as  longing. 

This  is  a  part  of  Harvey's  letter : 

You  may  think  that  I  have  become  reconciled,  but 
I  have  not.  If  I  could  see  any  reason  for  it  I  might. 
But  what  reason  is  there  ?  So  many  others,  older  and 
more  experienced,  could  do  what  you  are  doing,  and 
more  safely. 

In  your  letter  from  the  steamer  you  tell  me  not  to 
worry.  Good  God,  Sara  Lee,  how  can  I  help  worry- 
ing? I  do  not  even  know  where  you  are !  If  you  are 
in  England,  well  and  good.  If  you  are  abroad  I  do 
not  want  to  know  it.  I  know  these  foreigners.  I  run 
into  them  every  day.  And  they  do  not  understand 


132    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

American  women.     I  get  crazy  when  I  think  about  it. 

I  have  had  to  let  the  Leete  house  go.  There  is  not 
likely  to  be  such  a  chance  soon  again.  Business  is 
good,  but  I  don't  seem  to  care  much  about  it  any  more. 
Honestly,  dear,  I  think  you  have  treated  me  very  badly. 
I  always  feel  as  though  the  people  I  meet  are  wonder- 
ing if  we  have  quarreled  or  what  on  earth  took  you 
away  on  this  wild-goose  chase.  I  don't  know  myself, 
so  how  can  I  tell  them  ? 

I  shall  always  love  you,  Sara  Lee.  I  guess  I'm  that 
sort.  But  sometimes  I  wonder  if,  when  we  are  mar- 
ried, you  will  leave  me  again  in  some  such  uncalled- 
for  way.  I  warn  you  now,  dear,  that  I  won't  stand 
for  it.  I'm  suffering  too  much.  HARVEY. 

Sara  Lee  wore  the  letter  next  her  heait,  but  it  did 
not  warm  her.  She  went  through  the  next  few  hours 
in  a  sort  of  frozen  composure  and  ate  nothing  at  all. 

Then  came  the  bombardment. 

Henri  and  Jean,  driving  out  from  Dunkirk,  had 
passed  on  the  road  ammunition  trains,  waiting  in  the 
road  until  dark  before  moving  on  to  the  Front.  Henri 
had  given  Sara  Lee  her  letter,  had  watched  jealously 
for  its  effect  on  her,  and  then,  his  own  face  white  and 
set,  had  gone  on  down  the  ruined  street. 

Here  within  the  walls  of  a  destroyed  house  he  dis- 
appeared. The  place  was  evidently  familiar  to  him. 
for  he  moved  without  hesitation.  Broken  furniture 
still  stood  in  the  roofless  rooms,  and  in  front  of  a  bat- 
tered bureau  Henri  paused.  Still  whistling  under  his 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     133 

breath,  he  took  off  his  uniform  and  donned  a  strange 
one,  of  greenish  gray.  In  the  pocket  of  the  blouse  he 
stuffed  a  soft  round  cap  of  the  same  color.  Then, 
resuming  his  cape  and  Belgian  cap,  with  its  tassel 
over  his  forehead,  he  went  out  into  the  street  again. 
He  carried  in  his  belt  a  pistol,  but  it  was  not  the  one 
he  had  brought  in  with  him.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  by 
the  addition  of  the  cap  in  his  pocket,  Henri  was  at 
'that  moment  in  the  full  uniform  of  a  lieutenant  of  a 
Bavarian  infantry  regiment,  pistol  and  all. 

He  went  down  the  street  and  along  the  road  toward 
the  poplars.  He  met  the  first  detachment  of  men  out 
of  the  trenches  just  beyond  the  trees,  and  stepped  aside 
into  the  mud  to  let  them  pass,  calling  a  greeting  to 
them  out  of  the  darkness. 

"  Bonsoir!  "  they  replied,  and  saluted  stiffly.  There 
were  few  among  them  who  did  not  know  his  voice,  and 
fewer  still  who  did  not  suspect  his  business. 

"  A  brave  man,"  they  said  among  themselves  as  they 
went  on. 

"  How  long  will  he  last  ?  "  asked  one  young  soldier, 
o  boy  in  his  teens. 

"  One  cannot  live  long  who  does  as  he  does,"  re- 
plied a  gaunt  and  bearded  man.  "  But  it  is  a  fine  life 
while  it  continues.  A  fine  life!  " 

The  boy  stepped  out  of  the  shuffling  line  and  looked 
behind  him.  He  could  see  only  the  plow  of  Henri's 
eternal  cigarette.  "  I  should  like  to  go  with  him,"  he 
muttered  wistfully. 

The  ammunition  train  was  in  the  village  now.     It 


134    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

kept  the  center  of  the  road,  lest  it  should  slide  into  the 
mud  on  either  side  and  be  mired.  The  men  moved 
out  of  its  way  into  the  ditch,  grumbling. 

Henri  went  whistling  softly  down  the  road. 

The  first  shell  fell  i~  the  neglected  square.  The  sec- 
ond struck  the  rear  wagons  of  the  ammunition  train. 
Henri  heard  the  terrirfic  explosion  that  followed,  and 
burning  ran  madly  back  into  the  village.  More  shells 
fell  into  the  road.  The  men  scattered  like  partridges, 
Tunning  for  the  fields,  but  the  drivers  of  the  ammuni- 
tion wagons  beat  their  horses  and  came  lurching  and 
.shouting  down  the  road. 

There  was  cold  terror  in  Henri's  heart.  He  ran 
anadly,  throwing  aside  his  cape  as  he  went.  More 
shells  fell  ahead  in  the  street.  Once  in  the  darkness  he 
fell  flat  over  the  body  of  a  horse.  There  was  a  steady 
groaning  from  the  ditch  near  by.  But  he  got  up  and 
Tan  on,  a  strange  figure  with  his  flying  hair  and  his 
German  uniform. 

He  was  all  but  stabbed  by  Rene  when  he  entered  the 
dittle  house. 

"Mademoiselle?"  Henri  gasped,  holding  Rene's 
ifoayonet  away  from  his  heaving  chest. 

"  I  am  here,"  said  Sara  Lee's  voice  from  the  little 
.salle  a  manger.  "  Let  them  carry  in  the  wounded.  I 
.am  getting  ready  hot  water  and  bandages.  There  is 
not  much  space,  for  the  corner  of  room  has  been  shot 
away." 

She  was  dead  white  in  the  candlelight,  but  very; 
calm. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     135 

"  You  cannot  stay  here,"  Henri  panted.  "  At  any 
time " 

Another  shell  fell,  followed  by  the  rumble  of  falling 
walls. 

"  Some  one  must  stay,"  said  Sara  Lee.  "  There 
must  be  wounded  in  the  streets.  Marie  is  in  the 
cellar." 

Henri  pleaded  passionately  with  her  to  go  to  the 
cellar,  but  she  refused.  He  would  have  gathered  her 
up  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  there,  but  Jean  came  in, 
leading  a  wounded  man,  and  Henri  gave  up  in  despair. 

All  that  night  they  worked,  a  ghastly  business. 
More  than  one  man  died  that  night  in  the  little  house, 
while  a  blond  young  man  in  a  German  uniform  gave 
him  his  last  mouthful  of  water  or  took  down  those 
pitifully  vague  addresses  which  were  all  the  dying  Bel- 
gians had  to  give. 

"  I  have  not  heard  —  last  at  Aerschot,  but  now  — 
God  knows  where." 

No  more  shells  fell.  At  dawn,  with  all  done  that 
could  be  done,  Sara  Lee  fainted  quietly  in  the  hallway, 
and  Henri  carried  her  in  and  placed  her  on  her  bed.  A 
corner  of  the  room  was  indeed  gone.  The  mantel  was 
shattered,  and  the  little  stove.  But  on  the  floor  lay 
Harvey's  photograph,  uninjured.  Henri  lifted  it  and 
looked  at  it.  Then  he  placed  it  on  the  table,  and  very 
reverently  he  kissed  the  palm  of  Sara  Lee's  quiet  hand. 

Daylight  found  the  street  pitiful  indeed.  Henri,  at 
whose  costume  Rene  had  been  casting  wondering 
glances  all  night,  sent  a  request  for  men  from  the 


136    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

trenches  to  clear  away  the  bodies  of  the  horses  and  bury 
them,  and  somewhat  later  over  a  single  grave  in  the 
fields  there  was  a  simple  ceremony  of  burial  for  the 
men  who  had  fallen.  Henri  had  changed  again  by 
that  time,  but  he  sternly  forbade  Sara  Lee  to  attend. 

"  On  pain,"  he  said,  "  of  no  more  supplies,  made- 
moiselle. These  things  must  be.  They  are  war. 
But  you, can  do  nothing  to  help,  and  it  will  be  very  saa." 

Ambulances  took  away  the  wounded  at  dawn,  and 
the  little  house  became  quiet  once  more.  With  planks 
Rene  repaired  the  damage  to  the  corner,  and  trium- 
phantly produced  and  set  up  another  stove.  He  even 
put  up  a  mantelshelf,  and  on  it,  smiling  somewhat,  he 
placed  Harvey's  picture. 

Sara  Lee  saw  it  there,  and  a  tiny  seed  of  resentment 
took  root  and  grew. 

"  If  there  had  been  no  one  here  last  night,"  she  said 
to  the  photograph,  "  many  more  would  have  died. 
How  can  you  say  I  am  cruel  to  you?  Isn't  this  worth 
the  doing?" 

But  Harvey  remained  impassive,  detached,  his  eyes 
on  the  photographer's  white  muslin  screen.  And  the 
angle  of  his  jaw  was  set  and  dogged. 


XII 

THAT  morning  there  was  a  conference  in  the  little 
house  —  Colonel  Lilias,  who  had  come  in  before 
for  a  mute  but  appreciative  call  on  Sara  Lee,  and  for  a 
cup  of  chocolate ;  Captain  Tournay,  Jean  and  Henri. 
It  was  held  round  the  little  table  in  the  salle  a  manger, 
after  Marie  had  brought  coffee  and  gone  out. 

"  They  had  information  undoubtedly,"  said  the 
colonel.  "  The  same  thing  happened  at  Pervyse  when 
an  ammunition  train  went  through.  They  had  the 
place,  and  what  is  more  they  had  the  time.  Of  course 
there  are  the  airmen." 

"  It  did  not  leave  the  main  road  until  too  late  for 
observation  from  the  air,"  Henri  put  in  shortly. 

"  Yet  any  one  who  saw  it  waiting  at  the  crossroads 
might  have  learned  its  destination.  The  drivers  talk 
sometimes." 

"  But  the  word  had  to  be  carried  across,"  said  Cap- 
tain Tournay.  "  That  is  the  point.  My  men  report 
flashes  of  lights  from  the  fields.  We  have  followed 
them  up  and  found  no  houses,  no  anything.  In  this 
flat  country  a  small  light  travels  far." 

"  I  shall  try  to  learn  to-night,"  Henri  said.  "  It  is, 

of  course,  possible  that  some  one  from  over  there " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  think  not."  Colonel  Lilias  put  a  hand  on  Henri's 
shoulder  affectionately.  "  They  have  not  your  finesse, 
boy.  And  I  doubt  if,  in  all  their  army,  they  have  so 
brave  a  man." 


138     THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

Henri  flushed. 

"  There  is  a  courage  under  fire,  with  their  fellows 
round  —  that  is  one  thing.  And  a  courage  of  attack 
—  that  is  even  more  simple.  But  the  bravest  man  is 
the  one  who  works  alone  —  the  man  to  whom  capture 
is  death  without  honor." 

The  meeting  broke  up.  Jean  and  Henri  went  away 
in  the  car,  and  though  supplies  came  up  regularly  Sara 
Lee  did  not  see  the  battered  gray  car  for  four  days. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  Henri  came  alone.  Jean,  he 
said  briefly,  was  laid  up  for  a  little  while  with  a  flesh 
wound  in  his  shoulder.  He  would  be  well  very  soon. 
In  the  meantime  here  at  last  was  mutton.  It  had 
come  from  England,  and  he,  Henri,  had  found  it  lying 
forgotten  and  lonely  and  very  sad  and  had  brought  it 
along. 

After  that  Henri  disappeared  on  foot.  It  was  mid- 
afternoon  and  a  sunny  day.  Sara  Lee  saw  him  walk- 
ing briskly  across  the  fields  and  watched  him  out  of 
sight.  She  spoke  some  French  now,  and  she  had 
gathered  from  Rene,  who  had  no  scruples  about  listen- 
ing at  a  door,  that  Henri  was  the  bravest  man  in  the 
Belgian  Army. 

Until  now  Sara  Lee  had  given  small  thought  to 
Henri's  occupation.  She  knew  nothing  of  war,  and 
the  fact  that  Henri,  while  wearing  a  uniform,  was  un- 
attached, had  not  greatly  impressed  her.  Had  she 
known  the  constitution  of  a  modern  army  she  might 
have  wondered  over  his  freedom,  his  powerful  car,  his 
passes  and  maps.  But  his  detachment  had  not  seemed 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     139 

odd  to  her.  Even  his  appearance  during  the  bombard- 
ment in  the  uniform  of  a  German  lieutenant  had  meant 
nothing  to  her.  She  had  never  seen  a  German  uni- 
form. 

That  evening,  however,  when  he  -returned  she  ven- 
tured a  question.  They  dined  together,  the  two  of 
them,  for  the  first  time  at  the  little  house  alone.  Al- 
ways before  Jean  had  made  the  third.  And  it  was  a 
real  meal,  for  Sara  Lee  had  sacrificed  a  bit  of  mutton 
from  her  soup,  and  Henri  had  produced  from  his  pocket 
a  few  small  and  withered  oranges. 

"  A  gift!  "  he  said  gayiy,  and  piled  them  in  a  pre- 
carious heap  in  the  center  of  the  table.  On  the  exact 
top  he  placed  a  walnut. 

"  Now  speak  gently  anc  walk  softly,"  he  said.  "  It 
is  a  work  of  art  and  not  tc  be  lightly  demolished." 

He  was  alternately  gay  ind  silent  during  the  meal, 
and  more  than  once  Sara  Lee  found  his  eyes  on  her, 
with  something  new  and  ufferent  in  them. 

"  Just  you  and  I  together !  "  he  said  once.  "  It  is 
very  wonderful." 

And  again :  "  When  ^  ou  go  back  to  him,  shall  you 
tell  him  of  your  good  f:iend  who  has  tried  hard  to 
serve  you?  " 

"  Of  course  I  shall,"  s  lid  Sara  Lee.  "  And  he  will 
write  you,  I  know.  He  will  be  very  grateful." 

But  it  was  she  who  was  silent  after  that,  because 
somehow  it  would  be  hard  to  make  Harvey  under- 
stand. And  as  for  his  being  grateful 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Henri  later  on,  "  would  you 


140    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

object  if  I  make  a  suggestion  ?  You  wear  a  very  valu- 
able ring.  I  think  it  is  entirely  safe,  but  —  who  can 
tell?  And  also  it  is  not  entirely  kind  to  remind  men 
who  are  far  from  all  they  love  that  you " 

Sara  Lee  flushed  and  took  off  her  ring. 

"  I  am  glad  you  told  me,"  she  said.  And  Henri  did 
not  explain  that  the  Belgian  soldiers  would  not  recog- 
nize the  ring  as  either  a  diamond  or  a  symbol,  but 
that  to  him  it  was  close  to  torture. 

It  was  when  he  insisted  on  carrying  out  the  dishes, 
singing  a  little  French  song  as  he  did  so,  that  Sara  Lee 
decided  to  speak  what  was  in  her  mind.  He  was  in 
high  spirits  then. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "  shall  I  show  you 
something  that  the  eye  of  no  man  has  seen  before, 
and  that,  when  we  have  seen  it,  shall  never  be  seen 
again  ?  " 

On  her  interested  consent  he  called  in  Marie  and 
Rene,  making  a  great  ceremony  of  the  matter,  and 
sending  Marie  into  hysterical  giggling. 

"  Now  see !  "  he  said  earnestly.  "  No  eye  before 
has  ever  seen  or  will  again.  Will  you  guess,  made- 
moiselle? Or  you,  Marie?  Rene?" 

"  A  tear?  "  ventured  Sara  Lee. 

"  But  —  do  I  look  like  weeping  ?  " 

He  did  not,  indeed.  He  stood,  tall  and  young  and 
smiling  before  them,  and  produced  from  his  pocket 
the  walnut. 

"  Perceive! "  he  said,  breaking  it  open  and  showing 
the  kernel.  "Has  human  eye  ever  before  seen  it?" 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    141 

He  thrust  it  into  Marie's  open  mouth.  "  And  it  is 
gone !  Voila  tout!  " 

It  was  that  evening,  while  Sara  Lee  cut  bandages 
and  Henri  rolled  them,  that  she  asked  him  what  his 
work  was.  He  looked  rather  surprised,  and  rolled  for 
a  moment  without  replying.  Then :  "  I  am  a  man 
of  all  work,"  he  said.  "  What  you  call  odd  jobs." 

"  Then  you  don't  do  any  fighting?  '* 

"  In  the  trenches  —  no.  But  now  and  then  I  have 
a  little  skirmish." 

A  sort  of  fear  had  been  formulating  itself  in  Sarah 
Lee's  mind.  The  trenches  she  could  understand  or 
was  beginning  to  understand.  But  this  alternately 
joyous  and  silent  idler,  this  soldier  of  no  regiment  and 
no  detail  —  was  he  playing  a  man's  part  in  the  war  ? 

"  Why  don't  you  go  into  the  trenches  ?  "  she  asked 
with  her  usual  directness.  "  You  say  there  are  too  few 
men.  Yet  —  I  can  understand  Monsieur  Jean,  because 
he  has  only  one  eye.  But  you !  " 

"  I  do  something,"  he  said,  avoiding  her  eyes.  "  It 
is  not  a  great  deal.  It  is  the  thing  I  can  do  best. 
That  is  all." 

He  went  away  some  time  after  that,  leaving  the  lit- 
tle house  full  and  busy  justifying  its  existence.  The 
miller's  son,  who  came  daily  to  chat  with  Marie,  was 
helping  in  the  kitchen.  By  the  warm  stove,  and  only 
kept  from  standing  over  it  by  Marie's  sharp  orders, 
were  as  many  men  as  could  get  near.  Each  held  a 
bowl  of  hot  soup,  and  —  that  being  a  good  day  —  a 
piece  of  bread.  Tall  soldiers  and  little  ones,  all  dirty, 


142    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

all  weary,  almost  all  smiling,  they  peered  over  each 
other's  shoulders,  to  catch,  if  might  be,  a  glimpse  of 
Marie's  face. 

When  they  came  too  close  she  poked  an  elbow  into 
some  hulking  fellow  and  sent  him  back. 

"  Elbow-room,  in  the  name  of  God,"  she  would  beg. 

Over  all  the  room  hung  the  warm  steam  from  the 
kettles,  and  a  delicious  odor,  and  peace. 

Sara  Lee  had  never  heard  of  the  word  morale.  She 
would  have  been  astonished  to  have  been  told  that  she 
was  helping  the  morale  of  an  army.  But  she  gave  each 
night  in  that  little  house  of  mercy  something  that  noth- 
ing else  could  give  —  warmth  and  welcome,  but  above 
all  a  touch  of  home. 

That  night  Henri  did  not  come  back.  She  stood  by 
her  table  bandaging,  washing  small  wounds,  talking 
her  bits  of  French,  until  one  o'clock.  Then,  the  last 
dressing  done,  she  went  to  the  kitchen.  Marie  was 
there,  with  Maurice,  the  miller's  son. 

"  Has  the  captain  returned?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  yet,  mademoiselle." 

"  Leave  a  warm  fire,"  Sara  Lee  said.  "  He  will 
probably  come  in  later." 

Maurice  went  away,  with  a  civil  good  night.  Sara 
Lee  stood  in  the  doorway  after  he  had  gone,  looking 
out.  Farther  along  the  line  there  was  a  bombardment 
going  on.  She  knew  now  what  a  bombardment  meant 
and  her  brows  contracted.  Somewhere  there  in  the 
trenches  men  were  enduring  that,  while  Henri 

She  said  a  little  additional  prayer  that  night,  which 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     143 

was  that  she  should  have  courage  to  say  to  him  what 
she  felt  —  that  there  were  big  things  to  do,  and  that  it 
should  not  all  be  left  to  these  smiling,  ill-clac  oeasant 
soldiers. 

At  that  moment  Henri,  in  his  gray-greer  aniform, 
was  cutting  wire  before  a  German  trench,  one  of  a 
party  of  German  soldiers,  who  could  not  know  in  the 
darkness  that  there  had  been  a  strange  addition  to 
their  group.  Cutting  wire  and  learning  many  things 
which  it  was  well  that  he  should  know. 

Now  and  then,  in  perfect  German,  he  whispered  a 
question.  Always  he  received  a  reply.  And  stowed  it 
away  in  his  tenacious  memory  for  those  it  most  con- 
cerned. 

At  daylight  he  was  asleep  by  Sara  Lee's  kitchen  fire. 
And  at  daylight  Sara  Lee  was  awakened  by  much 
firing,  and  putting  on  a  dressing  gown  she  went  out 
to  see  what  was  happening.  Rene  was  in  the  street 
looking  toward  the  poplar  trees. 

"  An  attack,"  he  said  briefly. 

"  You  mean  —  the  Germans  ?  '* 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle." 

She  went  back  into  the  little  ruined  house,  heavy- 
hearted.  She  knew  now  what  it  meant,  an  attack. 
That  night  there  would  be  ambulances  in  the  street,  and 
word  would  come  up  that  certain  men  were  gone — - 
never  seek  warmth  and  shelter  in  her  kitchen  01 
like  children  for  a  second  bowl  of  soup. 

On  the  kitchen  floor  by  the  dying  fire  Henri  lay 
tsleep 


MUCH  has  been  said  of  the  work  of  spies  —  sai-i 
and  written.  Here  is  a  woman  in  Paris  send- 
ing forbidden  messages  on  a  marked  coin.  Men  an 
tapped  on  the  shoulder  by  a  civil  gentleman  in  a  sack 
suit,  and  walk  away  with  him,  never  to  be  seen  again. 

But  of  one  sort  of  spy  nothing  has  been  written  and 
but  little  is  known.  Yet  by  him  are  battles  won  or 
lost.  On  the  intelligence  he  brings  attacks  are  pre- 
oared  for  and  counter-attacks  launched.  It  is  not  al- 
ways ,^~  airman,  in  these  days  of  camouflage,  who 
brings  word  of  ammunition  trains  or  of  new  batteries 

In  the  early  days  of  the  war  the  work  of  the  secret 
service  at  the  Front  was  of  the  gravest  importance. 
There  were  fewer  air  machines,  and  observation  from 
the  air  was  a  new  science.  Also  trench  systems  were 
incomplete.  Between  them,  known  to  a  few,  were 
breaks  of  solid  land,  guarded  from  behind.  To  one 
who  knew,  it  was  possible,  though  dangerous  beyond 
words,  to  cross  the  inundated  country  that  lay  between 
the  Belgian  Front  and  the  German  lines,  and  even  with 
good  luck  to  go  farther. 

Henri,  for  instance,  on  that  night  before  had  left  the 
advanced  trench  at  the  railway  line,  had  crawled 
through  the  Belgian  barbed  wire,  and  had  advanced, 
standing  motionless  as  each  star  shell  burst  overhead, 
and  then  moving  on  quickly.  The  inundation  was  his 
greatest  difficulty.  Shallow  in  most  places,  it  was  full 

i45 


146    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

of  hidden  wire  and  crisscrossed  with  irrigation  ditches. 
Once  he  stumbled  into  one,  but  he  got  out  by  swim- 
ming. Had  he  been  laden  with  a  rifle  and  equipment 
it  might  have  been  difficult. 

He  swore  to  himself  as  his  feet  touched  ground 
"  ~ain.  For  a  star  shell  was  hanging  overhead,  and  his 
efforts  had  sent  wide  and  ever  increasingly  widening 
circles  over  the  placid  surface  of  the  lagoon.  Let  them 
lap  to  the  German  outposts  and  he  was  lost. 

Henri's  method  was  peculiar  to  himself.  Where 
there  was  dry  terrain  he  did  as  did  the  others,  crouched 
and  crept.  But  here  in  the  salt  marshes,  where  the  sea 
had  been  called  to  Belgium's  aid,  he  had  evolved  a 
system  of  moving,  neck  deep  in  water,  stopping  under 
the  white  night  lights,  advancing  in  the  darkness. 
There  was  no  shelter.  The  country  was  flat  as  a 
hearth. 

He  would  crawl  out  at  last  in  the  darkness  and  lie 
flat,  as  the  dead  lie.  And  then,  inch  by  inch,  he  would 
work  his  way  forward,  by  routes  that  he  knew. 
Sometimes  he  went  entirely  through  the  German  lines, 
and  reconnoitered  on  the  roads  behind.  They  were 
shallow  lines  then,  for  the  inundation  made  the  coun- 
try almost  untenable,  and  a  charge  in  force  from  the 
Belgians  across  was  unlikely. 

Henri  knew  his  country  well,  as  well  as  he  loved  it. 
In  a  farmhouse  behind  the  German  lines  he  sometimes 
doffed  his  wet  gray-green  uniform  and  put  on  the 
clothing  of  a  Belgian  peasant.  Trust  Henri  then  for 
being  a  lout,  a  simple  fellow  who  spoke  only  Flemish 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     147 

—  but  could  hear  in  many  tongues.  Watch  him  stand- 
ing at  crossroads  and  marveling  at  big  guns  that 
rumble  by. 

At  first  Henri  had  wished,  having  learned  of  an  at- 
tack, to  be  among  those  who  repelled  it.  Then  one  day 
his  King  had  sent  for  him  to  come  to  that  little  vil- 
lage which  was  now  his  capital  city. 

He  had  been  sent  in  alone  and  had  found  the  King 
at  the  table,  writing.  Henri  bowed  and  waited.  They 
were  not  unlike,  these  two  men,  only  Henri  was 
younger  and  lighter,  and  where  the  King's  eyes  were 
gray  Henri's  were  blue.  Such  a  queer  setting  for  a 
king  it  was  —  a  tawdry  summer  home,  ill-heated  and 
cheaply  furnished.  But  by  the  presence  of  Belgium's 
man  of  all  time  it  became  royal. 

So  Henri  bowed  and  waited,  and  soon  the  King  got 
up  and  shook  hands  with  him.  As  a  matter  of  fact  they 
knew  each  other  rather  well,  but  to  explain  more  would 
be  to  tell  that  family  name  of  Henri's  which  must  never 
be  known. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  the  King  gravely.  And  he  got  a 
box  of  cigars  from  the  mantelpiece  and  offered  it. 
"  I  sent  for  you  because  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  You 
are  doing  valuable  work." 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  it  so,  sire,"  said  Henri  rather 
unhappily,  because  he  felt  what  was  coining.  "  But  I 
cannot  do  it  all  the  time.  There  are  intervals " 

An  ordinary  mortal  may  not  interrupt  a  king,  but  a 
king  may  interrupt  anything,  except  perhaps  a  Ger- 
man bombardment. 


148    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  Intervals,  of  course.  If  there  were  not  you  would 
be  done  in  a  month." 

"  But  I  am  a  soldier.     My  place  is " 

"  Your  place  is  where  you  are  most  useful." 

Henri  was  getting  nothing  out  of  the  cigar.  He 
flung  it  away  and  got  up. 

"  I  want  to  fight  too,"  he  said  stubbornly.  "  We 
need  every  man,  and  I  am  —  rather  a  good  shot.  I 
do  this  other  because  I  can  do  it.  I  speak  their  infer- 
nal tongue.  But  it's  dirty  business  at  the  best,  sire." 
He  remembered  to  put  in  the  sire,  but  rather  ungra- 
ciously. Indeed  he  shot  it  out  like  a  bullet. 

"  Dirty  business !  "  said  the  King  thoughtfully.  "  I 
see  what  you  mean.  It  is,  of  course.  But  —  not  so 
dirty  as  the  things  they  have  done,  and  are  doing." 

He  sat  still  and  let  Henri  stamp  up  and  down,  be- 
cause, as  has  been  said,  he  knew  the  boy.  And  he  had 
never  been  one  to  insist  on  deference,  which  was  why 
he  got  so  much  of  it.  But  at  last  he  got  up  and  when 
Henri  stood  still,  rather  ashamed  of  himself,  he  put 
an  arm  over  the  boy's  shoulders. 

"  I  want  you  to  do  this  thing,  for  me.  And  this 
thing  only,"  he  said.  "  It  is  the  work  you  do  best. 
There  are  others  who  can  fight,  but  —  I  do  not  know 
any  one  else  who  can  do  as  you  have  done." 

Henri  promised.  He  would  have  promised  to  go 
out  and  drown  himself  in  the  sea,  just  beyond  the 
wind-swept  little  garden,  for  the  tall  grave  man  who 
stood  before  him.  Then  he  bowed  and  went  out,  and 
the  King  went  back  to  his  plain  pine  table  and  his  work. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     149 

That  was  the  reason  why  Sara  Lee  found  him 
asleep  on  the  floor  by  her  kitchen  stove  that  morning, 
and  went  back  to  her  cold  bed  to  lie  awake  and  think. 
But  no  explanation  came  to  her. 

The  arrival  of  Marie  roused  Henri.  The  worst  of 
the  bombardment  was  over,  but  there  was  far-away 
desultory  firing.  He  listened  carefully  before,  stand- 
ing outside  in  the  cold,  he  poured  over  his  head  and 
shoulders  a  pail  of  cold  water.  He  was  drying  him- 
self vigorously  when  he  heard  Sara  Lee's  voice  in  the 
kitchen. 

The  day  began  for  Henri  when  first  he  saw  the  girl. 
It  might  be  evening,  but  it  was  the  beginning  for  him. 
So  he  went  in  when  he  had  finished  his  toilet  and 
bowed  over  her  hand. 

"  You  are  cold,  mademoiselle." 

"  I  think  I  am  nervous.  There  was  an  attack  this 
morning." 

"Yes?" 

Marie  had  gone  into  the  next  room,  and  Sara  Lee 
raised  haggard  eyes  to  his. 

"  Henri,"  she  said  desperately  —  it  was  the  first  time 
she  had  called  him  that  — "  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you,  and  it's  not  very  pleasant." 

"You  are  going  home?"  It  was  the  worst  thing 
he  could  think  of.  But  she  shook  her  head. 

"  You  will  think  me  most  ungrateful  and  unkind." 

"You?     Kindness  itself!" 

"  But  this  is  different.  It  is  not  for  myself.  It  is 
because  I  care  a  great  deal  about  —  about " 


150    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  Mademoiselle !  " 

"  About  your  honor.  And  somehow  this  morning, 
when  I  found  you  here  asleep,  and  those  poor  fellows 
in  the  trenches  fighting " 

Henri  stared  at  her.  So  that  was  it!  And  he 
could  never  tell  her.  He  was  sworn  to  secrecy  by 
every  tradition  and  instinct  of  his  work.  He  could 
never  tell  her,  and  she  would  go  on  thinking  him  a 
shirker  and  a  coward.  She  would  be  grateful.  She 
would  be  sweetness  itself.  But  deep  in  her  heart  she 
would  loathe  him,  as  only  women  can  hate  for  a  fail- 
ing they  never  forgive. 

"  But  I  have  told  you,"  he  said  rather  wildly,  "  I  am 
not  idle.  I  do  certain  things  —  not  much,  but  of  a 
degree  of  importance." 

"  You  do  not  fight." 

In  Sara  Lee's  defense  many  things  may  be  urged  — 
.her  ignorance  of  modern  warfare;  the  isolation  of  her 
lack  of  knowledge  of  the  language;  but,  perhaps  more 
than  anything,  a  certain  rigidity  of  standard  that  com- 
prehended no  halfway  ground.  Right  was  right  and 
wrong  was  wrong  to  her  in  those  days.  Men  were 
brave  or  were  cowards.  Henri  was  worthy  or  un- 
worthy. And  she  felt  that,  for  all  his  kindness  to  her, 
he  was  unworthy. 

He  could  have  set  himself  right  with  a  word,  at  that. 
But  his  pride  was  hurt.  He  said  nothing  except,  when 
she  asked  if  he  had  minded  what  she  said,  to  reply: 
"  I  am  sorry  you  feel  as  you  do.  I  am  not  angry." 

He  went  away,  however,  without  breakfast.     Sara 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     151 

Lee  heard  his  car  going  at  its  usual  breakneck  speed 
up  the  street,  and  went  to  the  door.  She  would  have 
called  him  back  if  she  could,  for  his  eyes  haunted  her. 
But  he  did  not  look  back. 


XIV 

four  days  the  gray  car  did  not  come  again. 
Supplies  appeared  in  another  gray  car,  driven  by 
a  surly  Fleming.  The  waking  hours  were  full,  as 
usual.  Sara  Lee  grew  a  little  thin,  and  seemed  to  be 
always  listening.  But  there  was  no  Henri,  and  some- 
thing that  was  vivid  and  joyous  seemed  to  have  gone 
out  of  the  little  house. 

Even  Marie  no  longer  sang  as  she  swept  or  washed 
the  kettles,  and  Sara  Lee,  making  up  the  records  to 
send  home,  put  little  spirit  into  the  letter  that  went 
with  them. 

On  the  second  day  she  wrote  to  Harvey. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  feel  as  you  do,"  she  wrote, 
perhaps  unconsciously  using  Henri's  last  words  to  her. 
"  I  have  not  meant  to  be  cruel.  And  if  you  were  here 
you  would  realize  that  whether  others  could  have  done 
what  I  am  doing  or  not  —  and  of  course  many  could 
—  it  is  worth  doing.  I  hear  that  other  women  are 
establishing  houses  like  this,  but  the  British  and  the 
French  will  not  allow  women  so  near  the  lines.  The 
men  come  in  at  night  from  the  trenches  so  tired,  so 
hungry  and  so  cold.  Some  of  them  are  wounded 
too.  I  dress  the  little  wounds.  I  do  give  them  some- 
thing, Harvey  dear  —  if  it  is  only  a  reminder  that 
there  are  homes  in  the  world,  and  everything  is  not 
mud  and  waiting  and  killing." 

153 


154    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

She  told  him  that  his  picture  was  on  her  mantel, 
but  she  did  not  say  that  a  corner  of  her  room  had 
been  blown  away  or  that  the  mantel  was  but  a  plank 
from  a  destroyed  house.  And  she  sent  a  great  deal 
of  love,  but  she  did  not  say  that  she  no  longer  wore 
his  ring  on  her  finger.  And  of  course  she  was  coming 
back  to  him  if  he  still  wanted  her. 

More  than  Henri's  absence  was  troubling  Sara  Lee 
those  days.  Indeed  she  herself  laid  all  her  anxiety 
to  one  thing,  a  serious  one  at  that.  With  all  the  mar- 
vels of  Henri's  buying,  and  Jean's,  her  money  was 
not  holding  out.  The  scope  of  the  little  house  had 
grown  with  its  fame.  Now  and  then  there  were  unex- 
pected calls,  too  —  Marie's  mother,  starving  in  Havre ; 
sickness  and  death  in  the  little  town  at  the  crossroads : 
a  dozen  small  emergencies,  but  adding  to  the  demands 
on  her  slender  income.  She  had,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
already  begun  to  draw  on  her  private  capital. 

And  during  the  days  when  no  gray  car  appeared  she 
faced  the  situation,  took  stock,  as  it  were,  and  grew 
heavy-eyed  and  wistful. 

On  the  fifth  day  the  gray  car  came  again,  but  Jean 
drove  it  alone.  He  disclaimed  any  need  for  sympathy 
over  his  wound,  and  with  Rene's  aid  carried  in  the 
supplies. 

There  was  the  business  of  checking  them  off,  and 
the  further  business  of  Sara  Lee's  paying  for  them  in 
gold.  She  sat  at  the  table,  Jean  across,  and  struggled 
with  centimes  and  francs  and  louis  d'or,  an  engrossed 
frown  between  her  eyebrows. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     155 

Jean,  sitting  across,  thought  her  rather  changed. 
She  smiled  very  seldom,  and  her  eyes  were  perhaps 
more  steady.  It  was  a  young  girl  he  and  Henri  had 
brought  out  to  the  little  house.  It  was  a  very  serious 
and  rather  anxious  young  woman  who  sat  across  from 
him  and  piled  up  the  money  he  had  brought  back  into 
little  stacks. 

"  Jean,"  she  said  finally,  "  I  am  not  going  to  be  able 
to  do  it." 

"To  do  what?" 

"  To  continue  —  here." 

"No?" 

'  You  see  I  had  a  little  money  of  my  own,  and 
twenty  pounds  I  got  in  London.  You  and  —  and 
Henri  have  done  miracles  for  me.  But  soon  I  shall 
have  used  all  my  own  money,  except  enough  to  take  me 
back.  And  now  I  shall  have  to  start  on  my  English 
notes.  After  that " 

"  You  are  too  good  to  the  men.  These  cigarettes, 
now  —  you  could  do  without  them." 

"  But  they  are  very  cheap,  and  they  mean  so  much, 
Jean." 

She  sat  still,  her  hands  before  her  on  the  table. 
From  the  kitchen  came  the  bubbling  of  the  eternal 
soup.  Suddenly  a  tear  rolled  slowly  down  her  cheek. 
She  had  a  hatred  of  crying  in  public,  but  Jean  appar- 
ently did  not  notice. 

"  The  trouble,  mademoiselle,  is  that  you  are  trying 
to  feed  and  comfort  too  many." 

"  Jean,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  where  is  Henri?  " 


156    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  In  England,  I  think." 

The  only  clear  thought  in  Sara  Lee's  mind  was  that 
Henri  was  not  in  France,  and  that  he  had  gone  without 
telling  her.  She  had  hurt  him  horribly.  She  knew 
that.  He  might  never  come  back  to  the  little  house  of 
mercy.  There  was,  in  Henri,  for  all  his  joyousness, 
an  implacable  strain.  And  she  had  attacked  his  honor. 
What  possible  right  had  she  to  do  that  ? 

The  memory  of  all  his  thoughtful  kindness  came 
back,  and  it  was  a  pale  and  distracted  Sara  Lee  who 
looked  across  the  table  at  Jean. 

"  Did  he  tell  you  anything  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  mademoiselle." 

*'  He  is  very  angry  with  me,  Jean." 

"  But  surely  no,  mademoiselle.  With  you  ?  It  is 
impossible." 

But  though  they  said  nothing  more,  Jean  considered 
the  matter  deeply.  He  understood  now,  for  instance, 
a  certain  strangeness  in  Henri's  manner  before  his 
departure.  They  had  quarreled,  these  two.  Perhaps 
it  was  as  well,  though  Jean  was  by  now  a  convert  to 
Sara  Lee.  But  he  looked  out,  those  days,  on  but  half 
a  world,  did  Jean.  So  he  saw  only  the  woman  hunger 
in  Henri,  and  nothing  deeper.  And  in  Sara  Lee  a 
woman,  and  nothing  more. 

And  —  being  Jean  —  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

They  fell  to  discussing  ways  and  means.  The 
chocolate  could  be  cut  out,  but  not  the  cigarettes. 
Sara  Lee,  arguing  vehemently  for  them  and  trying  to 
forget  other  things,  remembered, suddenly  how  Uncle 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     157 

James  had  hated  cigarettes,  and  that  Harvey  himself 
disapproved  of  them.  Somehow  Harvey  seemed, 
those  days,  to  present  a  constant  figure  of  disapproval. 
He  gave  her  no  moral  support. 

At  Jean's  suggestion  she  added  to  her  report  of  so 
many  men  fed  with  soup,  so  much  tobacco,  sort  not 
specified,  so  many  small  wounds  dressed  —  a  request 
that  if  possible  her  allowance  be  increased.  She  did  it 
nervously,  but  when  the  letter  had  gone  she  felt  a  great 
relief.  She  inclosed  a  snapshot  of  the  little  house. 

Jean,  as  it  happens,  had  lied  about  Henri.  Not 
once,  but  several  times.  He  had  told  Marie,  for  in- 
stance, that  Henri  was  in  England,  and  later  on  he  told 
Rene.  Then,  having  done  his  errand,  he  drove  six 
miles  back  along  the  main  road  to  Dunkirk  and  picked 
up  Henri,  who  was  sitting  on  the  bank  of  a  canal 
watching  an  ammunition  train  go  by. 

Jean  backed  into  a  lane  and  turned  the  car  round. 
After  that  Henri  got  in  and  they  went  rapidly  back 
toward  the  Front.  It  was  a  different  Henri,  however, 
who  left  the  car  a  mile  from  the  crossroads  —  a  Henri 
in  the  uniform  of  a  French  private  soldier,  one  of  those 
odd  and  impracticable  uniforms  of  France  during 
the  first  year,  baggy  dark  blue  trousers,  stiff  cap, 
and  the  long-tailed  coat,  its  skirts  turned  back  and 
faced.  Round  his  neck  he  wore  a  knitted  scarf,  which 
covered  his  chin,  and,  true  to  the  instinct  of  the  French 
peasant  in  a  winter  campaign,  he  wore  innumerable 
undergarments,  the  red  of  a  jersey  showing  through 
rents  in  his  coat. 


158    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

Gone  were  Henri's  long  clean  lines,  his  small  waist 
and  broad  shoulders,  the  swing  of  his  walk.  Instead, 
he  walked  with  the  bent-kneed  swing  of  the  French 
infantryman,  that  tireless  but  awkward  marching  step 
which  renders  the  French  Army  so  mobile. 

He  carried  all  the  impedimenta  of  a  man  going  into 
the  trenches,  an  extra  jar  of  water,  a  flat  loaf  of  bread 
strapped  to  his  haversack,  and  an  intrenching  tool 
jingling  at  his  belt. 

Even  Jean  smiled  as  he  watched  him  moving  along 
toward  the  crowded  crossroads  —  smiled  and  then 
sighed.  For  Jean  had  lost  everything  in  the  war. 
His  wife  had  died  of  a  German  bullet  long  months  be- 
fore, and  with  her  had  gone  a  child  much  prayed  for 
and  soon  to  come.  But  Henri  had  brought  back  to 
Jean  something  to  live  for  —  or  to  die  for,  as  might 
happen. 

Henri  walked  along  gayly.  He  hailed  other  French 
soldiers.  He  joined  a  handful  and  stood  talking  to 
them.  But  he  reached  the  crossroads  before  the  am- 
munition train. 

The  crossroads  was  crowded,  as  usual  —  many  sol- 
diers, at  rest,  waiting  for  the  word  to  fall  in,  a  bat- 
tery held  up  by  the  breaking  of  a  wheel.  A  temporary 
Torge  had  been  set  up,  and  soldiers  in  leather  aprons 
were  working  over  the  fire.  A  handful  of  peasants 
watched,  their  dull  eyes  following  every  gesture.  And 
one  of  them  was  a  man  Henri  sought. 

Henri  sat  down  on  the  ground  and  lighted  a  ciga- 
rette. The  ammunition  train  rolled  in  and  halted,  and 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     159 

the  man  Henri  watched  turned  his  attention  to  the 
train.  He  had  been  dull  and  quiet  at  the  forge,  but 
now  he  became  smiling,  a  good  fellow.  He  found  a 
man  he  knew  among  the  drivers  and  offered  him  a 
cigarette.  He  also  produced  and  presented  an  entire 
box  of  matches.  Matches  were  very  dear,  and  hardly 
to  be  bought  at  any  price. 

Henri  watched  grimly  and  hummed  a  little  song : 

"  Trou  la  la,  qa  ne  va  guere; 
Trou  la  la,  ga  ne  va  pas." 

Still  humming  under  his  breath,  when  the  peasant 
left  the  crossroads  he  followed  him.  Not  closely.  The 
peasant  cut  across  the  fields.  Henri  followed  the  road 
and  entered  the  fields  at  a  different  angle.  He  knew 
his  way  quite  well,  for  he  had  done  the  same  thing 
each  day  for  four  days.  Only  twice  he  had  been  a  Bel- 
gian peasant,  and  once  he  was  an  officer,  and  once  he 
had  been  a  priest. 

Four  days  he  had  done  this  thing,  but  to-day  was 
different.  To-day  there  would  be  something  worth 
while,  he  fancied.  And  he  made  a  mental  note  that 
Sara  Lee  must  not  be  in  the  little  house  that  night. 

When  he  had  got  to  a  canal  where  the  pollard  wil- 
lows were  already  sending  out  their  tiny  red  buds, 
Henri  sat  down  again.  The  village  lay  before  him, 
desolate  and  ruined,  a  travesty  of  homes.  And  on  a 
slight  rise,  but  so  concealed  from  him  by  the  willows 
that  only  the  great  wings  showed,  stood  the  windmill. 


160    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

It  was  the  noon  respite  then,  and  beyond  the  line  of 
poplars  all  was  quiet.  The  enemy  liked  time  for  food, 
and  the  Belgians,  crippled  by  the  loss  of  that  earlier 
train,  were  husbanding  their  ammunition.  Far  away 
a  gap  in  the  poplar  trees  showed  a  German  observation 
balloon,  a  tiny  dot  against  the  sky. 

The  man  Henri  watched  went  slowly,  for  he  carried 
a  bag  of  grain  on  his  back.  Henri  no  longed  watched 
him.  He  watched  the  wind  wheel.  It  had  been 
broken,  and  one  plane  was  now  patched  wi<i>  what 
looked  like  a  red  cloth.  There  was  a  good  wind,  but 
clearly  the  miller  was  idle  that  day.  The  great  wings 
were  not  turning. 

Henri  sat  still  and  smoked.  He  thought  of  many 
things  —  of  Sara  Lee's  eyes  when  in  the  center  of  the 
London  traffic  she  had  held  the  dying  donkey;  of  her 
small  and  radiant  figure  at  the  Savoy;  of  the  morning 
he  had  found  her  at  Calais,  in  the  Gare  Maritime, 
quietly  unconscious  that  she  had  done  a  courageous 
thing.  And  he  thought,  too,  of  the  ring  and  the  pho- 
tograph she  carried.  But  mostly  he  remembered  the 
things  she  had  said  to  him  on  their  last  meeting. 

Perhaps  there  came  to  him  his  temptation  too.  It 
would  be  so  easy  that  night,  if  things  went  well,  to 
make  a  brave  showing  before  her,  to  let  her  see  that 
these  odd  jobs  he  did  had  their  value  and  their  risks. 
But  he  put  that  from  him.  The  little  house  of  mercy 
must  be  empty  that  night,  for  her  sake.  He  shivered 
as  he  remembered  the  room  where  she  slept,  the  cor- 
ner that  was  shot  away  and  left  open  to  the  street. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     161 

So  he  sat  and  watched.  And  at  one  o'clock  the  mill 
wheel  began  turning.  It  was  easy  to  count  the  revo- 
lutions by  the  red  wing.  Nine  times  it  turned,  and 
stopped.  After  five  minutes  or  so  it  turned  again, 
thirty  times.  Henri  smiled :  an  ugly  smile. 

"  A  good  guess,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  But  it  must 
be  more  than  a  guess." 

His  work  for  the  afternoon  was  done.  Still  with 
the  bent-kneed  swing  he  struck  back  to  the  road,  and 
avoiding  the  crossroads,  went  across  more  fields  to  a 
lane  where  Jean  waited  with  the  car.  Henri  took  a 
plunge  into  the  canal  when  he  had  removed  his  French 
uniform,  and  producing  a  towel  from  under  a  bush 
rubbed  himself  dry.  His  lean  boyish  body  gleamed, 
arms  and  legs  brown  from  much  swimming  under 
peaceful  summer  suns.  On  his  chest  he  showed  two 
scars,  still  pink.  Shrapnel  bites,  he  called  them.  But 
he  had,  it  is  to  be  feared,  a  certain  young  satisfaction 
in  them. 

He  was  in  high  good  humor.  The  water  was  icy, 
and  Jean  had  refused  to  join  him. 

"  My  passion  for  cleanliness,"  Henri  said  blithely, 
"  is  the  result  of  my  English  school  days.  You  would 
have  been  the  better  for  an  English  education,  Jean." 

"  A  canal  in  March !  "  Jean  grunted.  "  You  will 
end  badly." 

Henri  looked  longingly  at  the  water. 

"Had  I  a  dry  towel,"  he  said,  "I  would  go  in 
again." 

Jean  looked  at  him  with  his  one  eye. 


1 62    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  You  would  be  prettier  without  those  scars,"  he 
observed.  But  in  his  heart  he  prayed  that  there  might 
be  no  others  added  to  them,  that  nothing  might  mar 
or  destroy  that  bright  and  youthful  body. 

"  Depechez-vous!  Vous  sommes  presses! "  he 
added. 

But  Henri  was  minded  to  play.  He  girded  himself 
with  the  towel  and  struck  an  attitude. 

"  The  Russian  ballet,  Jean !  "  he  said,  and  capering 
madly  sent  Jean  into  deep  grumbles  of  laughter  by  his 
burlesque. 

"  I  must  have  exercise,"  Henri  said  at  last  when, 
breathless  and  with  flying  hair,  he  began  to  dress. 
"  That,  too,  is  my  English  schooling.  If  you, 
Jean " 

"  To  the  devil  with  your  English  schooling!  "  Jean 
remonstrated. 

Henri  sobered  quickly  after  that.  The  exhilaration 
of  his  cold  plunge  was  over. 

"The  American  lady?"  he  asked.  "She  is  al) 
right?" 

"  She  is  worried.     There  is  not  enough  money." 

Henri  frowned. 

"  And  I  have  nothing !  " 

This  opened  up  an  old  wound  with  Jean. 

"If  you  would  be  practical  and  take  pay  for  what 
you  are  doing,"  he  began. 

Henri  cut  him  short. 

"  Pay!  "  he  said.  "  What  is  there  to  pay  me  with? 
And  what  is  the  use  of  reopening  the  matter  ?  A  man 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     163 

may  be  a  spy  for  love  of  his  country.  God  knows 
there  is  enough  lying  and  deceit  in  the  business.  But 
to  be  a  spy  for  money  —  never !  " 

There  was  a  little  silence.  Then :  "  Now  for  made- 
moiselle," said  Henri.  "  She  must  be  out  of  the  vil- 
lage to-night.  And  that,  dear  friend,  must  be  your 
affair.  She  does  not  like  me." 

All  the  life  had  gone  out  of  his  vdce. 


XV 

*«  T>  UT  why  should  I  go  ?  "  Sara  Lee  asked.     "  It  is 

•"D  kind  of  you  to  ask  me,  Jean.  But  I  am  here 
to  work,  not  to  play." 

Long  ago  Sara  Lee  had  abandoned  her  idea  of  Jean 
as  a  paid  chauffeur.  She  even  surmised,  from  some- 
thing Marie  had  said,  that  he  had  been  a  person  of 
importance  in  the  Belgium  of  before  the  war.  So  she 
was  grateful,  but  inclined  to  be  obstinate. 

"  You  have  been  so  much  alone,  mademoiselle >l 

"Alone!" 

"  Cut  off  from  your  own  kind.  And  now  and  then 
one  finds,  at  the  hotel  in  Dunkirk,  some  English  nurses 
who  are  having  a  holiday.  You  would  like  to  talk  to 
them  perhaps/' 

"  Jean/'  she  said  unexpectedly,  "  why  don't  you  tel) 
me  the  truth?  You  want  me  to  leave  the  village  to- 
night. Why?" 

"  Because,  mademoiselle,  there  will  be  a  bombard- 
ment." 

"The  village  itself?" 

"  We  expect  it,"  he  answered  dryly. 

Sara  Lee  went  a  little  pale. 

"  But  then  I  shall  be  needed,  as  I  was  before." 

"  No  troops  will  pass  through  the  town  to-night 
They  will  take  a  road  beyond  the  fields." 


1 66     THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  How  do  you  know  these  things  ?  "  she  asked,  won- 
dering. "  About  the  troops  I  can  understand.  But 
the  bombardment." 

"  There  are  ways  of  finding  out,  mademoiselle,"  h^ 
replied  in  his  noncommittal  voice.  "  Now,  will  you 
go?" 

"  May  I  tell  Marie  and  Rene  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  I  shall  not  go.  How  can  you  think  that  I 
would  consider  my  own  safety  and  leave  them  here  ?  " 

Jean  had  ascertained  before  speaking  that  Marie  was 
not  in  the  house.  As  for  Rene,  he  sat  on  the  single 
doorstep  and  whittled  pegs  on  which  to  hang  his  rifle 
inside  the  door.  And  as  he  carved  he  sang  words  of 
his  own  to  the  tune  of  Tipperary. 

Inside  the  little  salle  a  manger  Jean  reassured  Sara 
Lee.  It  was  important  —  vital  —  that  Rene  and  Marie 
should  not  know  far  in  advance  of  the  bombardment. 
They  were  loyal,  certainly,  but  these  were  his  orders. 
In  abundance  of  time  they  would  be  warned  to  leave  the 
village. 

"  Who  is  to  warn  them  ?  " 

"  Henri  has  promised,  mademoiselle.  And  what  he 
promises  is  done." 

"  You  said  this  morning  that  he  was  in  England." 

"  He  has  returned." 

Sara  Lee's  heart,  which  had  been  going  along 
,-nerely  as  a  matter  of  duty  all  day,  suddenly  began 
to  beat  faster.  Her  color  came  up,  and  then  faded 
again.  He  had  returned,  and  he  had  not  come  to  the 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     167 

little  house.  But  then  —  what  could  Henri  mean  to 
her,  his  coming  or  his  going?  Was  she  to  add  to  her 
other  sins  against  Harvey  the  supreme  one  of  being 
interested  in  Henri? 

Not  that  she  said  all  that,  even  to  herself.  There 
was  a  wave  of  gladness  and  then  a  surge  of  remorse. 
That  is  all.  But  it  was  a  very  sober  Sara  Lee  who 
put  on  her  black  suit  with  the  white  collar  that  after- 
noon and  ordered,  by  Jean's  suggestion,  the  evening's 
preparations  as  though  nothing  was  to  happen. 

She  looked  round  her  little  room  before  she  left  it. 
It  might  not  be  there  when  she  returned.  So  she 
placed  Harvey's  photograph  under  her  mattress  for 
safety,  and  rather  uncomfortably  she  laid  beside  it 
the  small  ivory  crucifix  that  Henri  had  found  in  a 
ruined  house  and  brought  to  her.  Harvey  was  not  a 
Catholic.  He  did  not  believe  in  visualizing  his  reli- 
gion. And  she  had  a  distinct  impression  that  he  con- 
sidered such  things  as  did  so  as  bordering  on  idolatry. 

Sometime  after  dusk  that  evening  the  ammunition 
train  moved  out.  At  a  point  a  mile  or  so  from  the 
village  a  dispatch  rider  on  a  motor  cycle  stopped  the 
rumbling  lorry  at  the  head  of  the  procession  and  deliv- 
ered a  message,  which  the  guide  read  by  the  light  of  a 
sheltered  match.  The  train  moved  on,  but  it  did  not 
turn  down  to  the  village.  It  went  beyond  to  a  place 
of  safety,  and  there  remained  for  the  night. 

But  before  that  time  Henri,  lying  close  in  a  field, 
had  seen  a  skulking  figure  run  from  the  road  to  the 
mill,  and  soon  after  had  seen  the  mill  wheel  turn  once, 


1 68    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

describing  a  great  arc;  and  on  one  of  the  wings,  show- 
ing only  toward  the  poplar  trees,  was  a  lighted  lantern. 

Five  minutes  later,  exactly  time  enough  for  the 
train  to  have  reached  the  village  street,  German  shells 
began  to  fall  in  it.  Henri,  lying  flat  on  the  ground, 
swore  silently  and  deeply. 

In  every  land  during  this  war  there  have  been  those 
who  would  sell  their  country  for  a  price.  Sometimes 
money.  Sometimes  protection.  And  of  all  betrayals 
that  of  the  man  who  sells  his  own  country  is  the  most 
dastardly.  Henri,  lying  face  down,  bit  the  grass  be- 
neath him  in  sheer  rage. 

One  thing  he  had  not  counted  on,  he  who  foresaw 
most  things.  The  miller  and  his  son,  being  what  they 
were,  were  cowards  as  well.  Doubtless  the  mill  had 
been  promised  protection.  It  was  too  valuable  to  the 
Germans  to  be  destroyed.  But  with  the  first  shot 
both  men  left  the  house  by  the  mill  and  scurried  like 
rabbits  for  the  open  fields. 

Maurice,  poor  Marie's  lover  by  now,  almost  tram- 
pled on  Henri's  prostrate  body.  And  Henri  was 
alone,  and  his  work  was  to  take  them  alive.  They 
had  information  he  must  have  —  how  the  modus 
vivendi  had  been  arranged,  through  what  channels. 
And  under  suitable  treatment  they  would  tell. 

He  could  not  follow  them  through  the  fields.  He 
lay  still,  during  a  fiercer  bombardment  than  the  one 
before,  raising  his  head  now  and  then  to  see  if  the  lit- 
tle house  of  mercy  still  stood.  No  shells  came  his 
way,  but  the  sky  line  of  the  village  altered  quickly. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     169 

The  standing  fragment  of  the  church  towers  went 
early.  There  was  much  sound  of  falling  masonry. 
From  somewhere  behind  him  a  Belgian  battery  gave 
tongue,  but  not  for  long.  And  then  came  silence. 

Henri  moved  then.  He  crept  nearer  the  mill  and 
nearer.  And  at  last  he  stood  inside  and  took  his  bear- 
ings. A  lamp  burned  in  the  kitchen,  showing  a  dirty 
brick  floor  and  a  littered  table  —  such  a  house  as  men 
keep,  untidy  and  unhomelike.  A  burnt  kettle  stood 
on  the  hearth,  and  leaning  against  the  wall  was  the 
bag  of  grain  Maurice  had  carried  from  the  crossroads. 

"  A  mill  which  grinds  without  grain,"  Henri  said  to 
himself. 

There  was  a  boxed-in  staircase  to  the  upper  floor, 
and  there,  with  the  door  slightly  ajar,  he  stationed 
himself,  pistol  in  hand.  Now  and  then  he  glanced 
uneasily  at  the  clock.  Sara  Lee  must  not  be  back  be- 
fore he  had  taken  his  prisoners  to  the  little  house  and 
turned  them  over  to  those  who  waited  there. 

There  were  footsteps  outside,  and  Henri  drew  the 
door  a  little  closer.  But  he  was  dismayed  to  find  it 
Marie.  She  crept  in,  a  white  and  broken  thing,  and 
looked  about  her. 

"  Maurice !  "  she  called. 

She  sat  down  for  a  moment,  and  then,  seeing  the 
disorder  about  her,  set  to  work  to  clear  the  table.  It 
was  then  that  Henri  lowered  his  pistol  and  opened  the 
door. 

"  Don't  shriek,  Marie,"  he  said. 

She  turned  and  saw  him,  and  clutched  at  the  table. 


cjo     THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"Monsieur!" 

"  Marie,"  he  said  quietly,  "  go  up  these  stairs  and 
remain  quiet.  Do  not  walk  round.  And  do  not  come 
down,  no  matter  what  you  hear!  " 

She  obeyed  him,  stumbling  somewhat.  For  she  had 
seen  his  revolver,  and  it  frightened  her.  But  as  she 
passed  him  she  clutched  at  his  sleeve. 

"  He  is  good  —  Maurice,"  she  said,  gasping.  "  Of 
the  father  I  know  nothing,  but  Maurice " 

"  Go  up  and  be  silent !  "  was  all  he  said. 

Now,  by  all  that  goes  to  make  a  story,  Sara  Lee 
should  have  met  Mabel  at  the  Hotel  des  Arcades  in 
Dunkirk,  and  should  have  been  able  to  make  that  effi- 
cient young  woman  burn  with  jealousy  —  Mabel,  who 
from  the  safety  of  her  hospital  in  Boulogne  considered 
Dunkirk  the  Front. 

Indeed  Sara  Lee,  to  whom  the  world  was  beginning 
to  seem  very  small,  had  had  some  such  faint  hope. 
But  Mabel  was  not  there,  and  it  was  not  until  long 
after  that  they  met  at  all,  and  then  only  when  the  lights 
had  gone  clown  and  Sara  Lee  was  again  knitting  by  the 
fire. 

There  were  a  few  nurses  there,  in  their  white  veils 
with  the  red  cross  over  the  forehead,  and  one  or  two 
Englishwomen  in  hats  that  sat  a  trifle  too  high  on  the 
tops  of  their  heads  and  with  long  lists  before  them 
which  they  checked  as  they  ate.  Aviators  in  leather 
coats;  a  few  Spahis  in  cloak  and  turban,  with  full- 
gathered  bloomers  and  high  boots ;  some  American  am- 
bulance drivers,  rather  noisy  and  very  young;  and 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     171 

many  officers,  in  every  uniform  of  the  Allied  armies 
—  sat  at  food  together  and  for  a  time  forgot  their 
anxieties  under  the  influence  of  lights,  food  and 
warmth,  and  red  and  white  wine  mixed  with  water. 

When  he  chose,  Jean  could  be  a  delightful  compan- 
ion; not  with  Henri's  lift  of  spirits,  but  quietly  inter- 
esting. And  that  evening  he  was  a  new  Jean  to  Sara 
Lee,  a  man  of  the  world,  talking  of  world  affairs.  He 
found  her  apt  and  intelligent,  and  for  Sara  Lee  much 
that  had  been  clouded  cleared  up  forever  that  night. 
Until  then  she  had  known  only  the  humanities  of  the 
war,  or  its  inhumanities.  There,  over  that  little  table, 
she  learned  something  of  its  politics  and  its  inevitabil- 
ity. She  had  been  working  in  the  dark,  with  her  heart 
only.  Now  she  began  to  grasp  the  real  significance  of 
it  all,  of  Belgium's  anxiety  for  many  years,  of  Ger- 
many's cold  and  cruel  preparation,  and  empty  protests 
of  friendship.  She  learned  of  the  flight  of  the  gov- 
ernment from  Brussels,  the  most  important  state 
papers  being  taken  away  in  a  hand  cart,  on  top  of 
which,  at  the  last  moment,  some  flustered  official  had 
placed  a  tall  silk  hat!  She  learned  of  the  failure  of 
great  fortifications  before  the  invaders'  heavy  guns 
And  she  had  drawn  for  her  such  a  picture  of  Albert  of 
Belgium  as  she  was  never  to  forget. 

Perhaps  Sara  Lee's  real  growth  began  that  night, 
over  that  simple  dinner  at  the  Hotel  des  Arcades. 

"  I  wish,"  she  said  at  last,  "  that  Uncle  James  could 
have  heard  all  this.  He  was  always  so  puzzled  about 
it  all.  And  —  you  make  it  so  clear." 


172    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

When  dinner  was  over  a  bit  of  tension  had  relaxed 
in  her  somewhat.  She  had  been  too  close,  for  too 
long.  And  when  a  group  of  Belgian  officers,  learning 
who  she  was,  asked  to  be  presented  and  gravely 
thanked  her,  she  flushed  with  happiness. 

"  We  must  see  if  mademoiselle  shall  not  have  a 
medal,"  said  the  only  one  who  spoke  English. 

"  A  medal?     For  what?  " 

"  For  courage,"  he  said,  bowing.  "  Belgium  has 
little  to  give,  but  it  can  at  least  do  honor  to  a  brave 
lady." 

Jean  was  smiling  when  they  passed  on.  What  a 
story  would  this  slip  of  a  girl  take  home  with  her! 

But:  "I  don't  think  I  want  a  medal,  Jean,"  she 
said.  "  I  didn't  come  for  that.  And  after  all  it  is  you 
and  Henri  who  have  done  the  thing  —  not  I." 

Accustomed  to  women  of  a  more  sophisticated  class, 
Jean  had  at  first  taken  her  naivete  for  the  height  of 
subtlety.  He  was  always  expecting  her  to  betray  her- 
self. But  after  that  evening  with  her  he  changed. 
Just  such  simplicity  had  been  his  wife's.  Sometimes 
Sara  Lee  reminded  him  of  her  —  the  upraising  of  her 
eyes  or  an  unstudied  gesture. 

He  sighed. 

"  You  are  very  wonderful,  you  Americans,"  he  said. 
It  was  the  nearest  to  a  compliment  that  he  had  ever 
come.  And  after  that  evening  he  was  always  very 
gentle  with  her.  Once  he  had  protected  her  because 
Henri  had  asked  him  to  do  so;  now  he  himself  became 
in  his  silent  way  her  protector. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     173 

The  ride  home  through  the  dark  was  very  quiet. 
Sara  Lee  sat  beside  him  watching  the  stars  and  grow- 
ing increasingly  anxious  as  they  went,  not  too  rapidly, 
toward  the  little  house.  There  were  no  lights.  Air 
raids  had  grown  common  in  Dunkfrk,  and  there  were 
no  street  lights  in  the  little  city.  Once  on  the  highway 
Jean  lighted  the  lamps,  but  left  them  very  low,  and 
two  miles  from  the  little  house  he  put  them  out  alto- 
gether. They  traveled  by  starlight  then,  following 
as  best  they  could  the  tall  trees  that  marked  the  road. 
Xow  and  then  they  went  astray  at  that,  and  once  they 
tilted  into  the  ditch  and  had  hard  pulling  to  get  out. 

At  the  top  of  the  street  Jean  stopped  and  went  on 
foot  a  little  way  down.  He  came  back,  with  the  report 
that  new  shells  had  made  the  way  impassable;  and 
again  Sara  Lee  shivered.  If  the  little  house  was  gone! 

But  it  was  there,  and  lighted  too.  Through  its 
broken  shutters  came  the  yellow  glow  of  the  oil  lamp 
that  now  hung  over  the  table  in  the  salle  a  manger. 

Whatever  Jean's  anxieties  had  been  fell  from  him 
as  he  pushed  open  the  door.  Henri's  voice  was  the 
first  thing  they  heard.  He  was  too  much  occupied  to 
notice  their  approach. 

So  it  was  that  Sara  Lee  saw,  for  the  last  time,  the 
miller  and  his  son,  Maurice;  saw  them,  but  did  not 
know  them,  for  over  their  heads  were  bags  of  their 
own  sacking,  with  eyeholes  roughly  cut  in  them. 
Their  hands  were  bound,  and  three  soldiers  were  wait- 
ing to  take  them  away. 

"  I  "have  covered  your  heads,"  Henri  was  saying  in 


174    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

French,  "  because  it  is  not  well  that  our  brave  Belgians 
should  know  that  they  have  been  betrayed  by  those  of 
their  own  number." 

It  was  a  cold  and  terrible  Henri  who  spoke. 

"  Take  them  away,"  he  said  to  the  waiting  men. 

A  few  moments  later  he  turned  from  the  door  and 
heard  Sara  Lee  sobbing  in  her  room.  He  tapped,  and 
on  receiving  no  reply  he  went  in.  The  room  was  un- 
harmed, and  by  the  light  of  a  candle  he  saw  the  girl, 
face  down  on  the  bed.  He  spoke  to  her,  but  she  only 
lay  crouched  deeper,  her  shoulders  shaking. 

"  It  is  war,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  and  went  closer. 
Then  suddenly  all  the  hurt  of  the  past  days,  all  the  bit- 
terness of  the  last  hour,  were  lost  in  an  overwhelming 
burst  of  tenderness. 

He  bent  over  her  and  put  his  arms  round  her. 

"  That  I  should  have  hurt  you  so !  "  he  said  softly. 
"  I,  who  would  die  for  you,  mademoiselle.  I  who  wor- 
ship you."  He  buried  his  face  in  the  warm  hollow  of 
her  neck  and  held  her  close.  He  was  trembling.  "  I 
love  you,"  he  whispered.  "  I  love  you." 

She  quieted  under  his  touch.  He  was  very  strong, 
and  there  was  refuge  in  his  arms.  For  a  moment  she 
lay  still,  happier  than  she  had  been  for  weeks.  It  was 
Henri  who  was  shaken  now  and  the  girl  who  was  still. 

But  very  soon  came  the  thing  that,  after  all,  he  ex- 
pected. She  drew  herself  away  from  him,  and  Henri, 
sensitive  to  every  gesture,  stood  back. 

"  Who  are  they  ?  "  was  the  first  thing  she  said.  It 
rather  stabbed  him.  He  had  just  told  her  that  he 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     175 

loved  her,  and  never  before  in  his  careless  young  life 
had  he  said  that  to  any  woman. 

*'  Spies,"  he  said  briefly. 

A  flushed  and  tearful  Sara  Lee  stood  up  then  and 
looked  up  at  him  gravely. 

"  Then  —  that  is  what  you  do ?  " 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle." 

Quite  suddenly  she  went  to  him  and  held  up  her 
face. 

"  Please  kiss  me,  Henri,"  she  said  very  simply.  "  I 
have  been  cruel  and  stupid,  and " 

But  he  had  her  in  his  arms  then,  and  he  drew  her 
close  as  though  he  would  never  let  her  go.  He  was 
one  great  burst  of  joy,  poor  Henri.  But  when  she 
gently  freed  herself  at  last  it  was  to  deliver  what 
seemed  for  a  time  his  death  wound, 

"  You  have  paid  me  a  great  tribute,"  she  said,  still 
simply  and  gravely.  "  I  wanted  you  to  kiss  me,  be- 
cause of  what  you  said.  But  that  will  have  to  be  all, 
Henri  dear." 

"All?"  he  said  blankly. 

"  You  haven't  forgotten,  have  you  ?  I  —  I  am  en- 
gaged to  somebody  else." 

Henri  stood  still,  swaying  a  little. 

"  And  you  love  him  ?     More  than  you  care  for  me  ?  " 

"  He  is  —  he  is  my  kind,"  said  Sara  Lee  rather  piti- 
fully. "  I  am  not  what  you  think  me.  You  see  me 
here,  doing  what  you  think  is  good  work,  and  you  are 
grateful.  And  you  don't  see  any  other  women.  So 
j » 


176    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  And  you  think  I  love  you  localise  I  see  no  one 
else  ?  "  he  demanded,  still  rather  stunned. 

"Isn't  that  part  of  it?" 

He  flung  out  his  hands  as  though  he  despaired  of 
making  her  understand. 

"This  man  at  home "  he  said  bitterly;  "this 

man  who  loves  you  so  well  that  he  let  you  cross  the 
sea  and  come  here  alone  —  do  you  love  him  very 
dearly?" 

"  I  am  promised  to  him." 

All  at  once  Sara  Lee  saw  the  little  parlor  at  home, 
and  Harvey,  gentle,  rather  stolid  and  dependable.  Oh, 
very  dependable.  She  saw  him  as  he  had  looked  the 
night  he  had  said  he  loved  her,  rather  wistful  and  very, 
very  tender.  She  could  not  hurt  him  so.  She  had 
said  she  was  going  back  to  him,  and  she  must  go. 

"  I  love  him  very  much,  Henri." 

Very  quietly,  considering  the  hell  that  was  raging 
in  him,  Henri  bent  over  and  kissed  her  hand.  Then  he 
turned  it  over,  and  for  an  instant  he  held  his  cheek 
against  its  warmth.  He  went  out  at  once,  and  Sara 
Lee  heard  the  door  slam. 


XVI 

TIME  passed  quickly,  as  always  it  does  when  there 
is  work  to  do.  Round  the  ruined  houses  tne 
gray  grass  turned  green  again,  and  in  travesties  of 
gardens  early  spring  flowers  began  to  show  a  touch  of 
color. 

The  first  of  them  greeted  Sara  Lee  one  morning  as 
she  stood  on  her  doorstep  in  the  early  sun.  She  gath- 
ered them  and  placed  them,  one  on  each  grave,  in  the 
cemetery  near  the  poplar  trees,  where  small  wooden 
crosses,  sometimes  surmounted  by  a  cap,  marked  many 
graves. 

Marie,  a  silent  subdued  Marie,  worked  steadily  in  the 
little  house.  She  did  not  weep,  but  now  and  then  Sara 
Lee  found  her  stirring  something  on  the  stove  and 
looking  toward  the  quiet  mill  in  the  fields.  And  once 
Sara  Lee,  surprising  that  look  on  her  face,  put  her  arms 
about  the  girl  and  held  her  for  a  moment.  But  she 
did  not  say  anything.  There  was  nothing  to  say. 

With  the  opening  up  of  the  spring  came  increased 
movement  and  activity  among  the  troops.  The  beach 
and  the  sand  dunes  round  La  Panne  were  filled  with 
drilling  men,  Belgium's  new  army.  Veterans  of  the 
winter,  at  rest  behind  the  lines,  sat  in  the  sun  and 
pared  potatoes  for  me  midday  meal.  Convalescents 
from  the  hospital  appeared  in  motley  garments  from 

177 


178    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

the  Ambulance  Ocean  and  walked  along  the  water 
front,  where  the  sea,  no  longer  gray  and  sullen,  rolled 
up  in  thin  white  lines  of  foam  to  their  very  feet. 
Winter  straw  came  out  of  wooden  sabots.  Winter- 
bitten  hands  turned  soft.  Canal  boats  blossomed  out 
with  great  washings.  And  the  sentry  at  the  gun  em- 
placement in  the  sand  up  the  beach  gave  over  gather- 
ing sticks  for  his  fire,  and  lay,  when  no  one  was  about, 
in  a  hollow  in  the  dune,  face  to  the  sky. 

So  spring  came  to  that  small  fragment  of  Belgium 
which  had  been  saved  —  spring  and  hope.  Soon  now 
the  great  and  powerful  Allies  would  drive  out  the 
Huns,  and  all  would  be  as  it  had  been.  Splendid 
rumors  were  about.  The  Germans  were  already 
yielding  at  La  Bassee.  There  was  to  be  a  great  drive 
along  the  entire  Front,  and  hopefully  one  would  return 
home  in  time  for  the  spring  planting. 

A  sort  of  informal  council  took  place  occasionally 
in  the  little  house.  Maps  replaced  the  dressings  on  the 
table  in  the  salle  a  manger,  and  junior  officers,  armed 
•with  Sara  Lee's  box  of  pins,  thrust  back  the  enemy  at 
various  points  and  proved  conclusively  that  his  posi- 
tion was  untenable.  They  celebrated  these  paper  vic- 
tories with  Sara  Lee's  tea,  and  went  away  the  better 
for  an  hour  or  so  of  hope  and  tea  and  a  girl's  soft  voice 
and  quiet  eyes.  . 

Now  and  then  there  was  one,  of  course,  who  lagged 
behind  his  fellows,  with  a  yearning  tenderness  in  his 
face  that  a  glance  from  the  girl  would  have  quickly 
turned  to  love.  But  Sara  Lee  had  no  coquetry. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    179 

When,  as  occasionally  happened,  there  was  a  bit  too 
much  fervor  when  her  hand  was  kissed,  she  laid  it 
where  it  belonged  —  to  loneliness  and  the  spring  — 
and  became  extremely  maternal  and  very,  very  kind.. 
Which  —  both  of  them  —  are  death  blows  to  young 
love. 

The  winter  floods  were  receding.  Along  the  Yser 
Canal  mud-caked  flats  began  to  appear,  with  here  and 
there  rusty  tangles  of  barbed  wire.  And  with  the  les- 
sening of  the  flood  came  new  activities  to  the  little 
k"  e.  The  spring  drive  was  coming. 

There  was  spring  indeed,  everywhere  but  in  Henri's 
heart. 

Day  after  day  messages  were  left  with  Sara  Lee  by 
men  in  uniform  —  sometimes  letters,  sometimes  a 
word.  And  these  she  faithfully  cared  for  until  such 
time  as  Jean  came  for  them.  Now  and  then  it  was 
Henri  who  came,  but  when  he  stayed  in  the  village  he 
made  his  headquarters  at  the  house  of  the  mill.  There, 
with  sacking  over  the  windows,  he  wrote  his  reports 
by  lamplight,  reports  which  Jean  carried  back  to  the 
villa  in  the  fishing  village  by  the  sea. 

However,  though  he  no  longer  came  and  went  as  be- 
fore, Henri  made  frequent  calls  at  the  house  of  mercy. 
But  now  he  came  in  the  evenings,  when  the  place  was 
full  of  men.  Sara  Lee  was  doing  more  dressings  than 
before.  The  semi-armistice  of  winter  was  over,  and 
there  were  nights  when  a  row  of  wounded  men  lay  on 
the  floor  in  the  little  salle  a  manger  and  waited,  in  a 
sort  of  dreadful  quiet,  to  be  taken  away. 


i8o    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

Rumors  came  of  hard  fighting  farther  along  the 
line,  and  sometimes,  on  nights  when  the  clouds  hung 
low,  the  flashes  of  the  guns  at  Ypres  looked  like  in- 
cessant lightning.  From  the  sand  dunes  at  Nieuport 
and  Dixmude  there  was  firing  also,  and  the  air  seemed 
sometimes  to  be  full  of  scouting  planes. 

The  Canadians  were  moving  toward  the  Front  at 
INeuve  Chapelle  at  that  time.  And  one  day  a  lorry, 
piled  high  with  boxes,  rolled  and  thumped  down  the 
street,  and  halted  by  Rene. 

"  Rather  think  we  are  lost,"  explained  the  driver, 
grinning  sheepishly  at  Rene. 

There  were  four  boys  in  khaki  on  the  truck,  and  not 
a  word  of  French  among  them.  Sara  Lee,  who  rolled 
her  own  bandages  now,  heard  the  speech  and  came  out. 

"  Good  gracious !  "  she  said,  and  gave  an  alarmed 
glance  at  the  sky.  But  it  was  the  noon  hour,  when 
every  good  German  abandons  war  for  food,  and  the 
sky  was  empty. 

The  boys  cheered  perceptibly.  Here  was  at  last 
some  one  who  spoke  a  Christian  tongue. 

"  Must  have  taken  the  wrong  turning,  miss,"  said 
one  of  them,  saluting. 

"Where  do  you  want  to  go?"  she  asked.  "You 
are  very  close  to  the  Belgian  Front  here.  It  is  not  at 
all  safe." 

They  all  saluted ;  then,  staring  at  her  curiously,  told 
her. 

"  Dear  me !  "  said  Sara  Lee.  "  You  are  a  long  way 
off.  And  a  long  way  from  home  too.'7 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     181 

They  smiled.  They  looked,  with  their  clean-haven 
faces,  absurdly  young  after  the  bearded  Belgian  sol- 
diers. 

*'  I  am  an  American,  too,"  said  Sara  Lee  with  just  a 
touch  of  homesickness  in  her  voice.  She  had  been 
feeling  lonely  lately.  "  If  you  have  time  to  come  in 
I  could  give  you  luncheon.  Rene  can  tell  us  if  any 
German  air  machines  come  over." 

Would  they  come  in?  Indeed,  yes!  They  crawled 
down  off  the  lorry,  and  took  off  their  caps,  and  ate 
every  particle  of  food  in  the  house.  And,  though  they 
were  mutely  curious  at  first,  soon  they  were  asking 
questions.  How  long  had  she  been  there  ?  What  did 
she  do?  Wasn't  it  dangerous? 

"  Not  so  dangerous  as  it  looks,"  said  Sara  Lee,  smil- 
ing. "  The  Germans  seldom  bother  the  town  now. 
It  is  not  worth  while." 

Later  on  they  went  over  the  house.  They  climbed 
the  broken  staircase  and  stared  toward  the  break  in  the 
poplar  trees,  from  the  roofless  floor  above. 

"  Some  girl !  "  one  of  them  said  in  an  undertone. 

The  others  were  gazing  intently  toward  the  Front. 
Never  be  fore,  had  they  been  so  close.  Never  had  they 
seen  a  ruined  town.  War,  until  now,  had  been  a 
thing  of  Valcartier,  of  a  long  voyage,  of  much  drill  in 
the  mud  at  Salisbury  Plain.  Now  here  they  saw,  at 
their  feet,  what  war  could  do. 

44  Damn  them!"  said  one  of  the  boys  suddenly. 
"  Fellows,  we'll  get  back  at  them  soon." 

So  they  went  away,  a  trifle  silent  and  very  grateful. 


<82    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

But  before  they  left  they  had  a  glimpse  of  Sara  Lee's 
room,  with  the  corner  gone,  and  Harvey's  picture  on 
the  mantel. 

"  Some  girl !  "  they  repeated  as  they  drove  up  the 
street.  It  was  the  tribute  of  inarticulate  youth. 

Sara  Lee  went  back  to  her  bandages  and  her 
thoughts.  She  had  not  a  great  deal  of  time  to  think, 
what  with  the  officers  stopping  in  to  fight  their  paper- 
and-pin  battles,  and  with  letters  to  write  and  dressings 
to  make  and  supplies  to  order.  She  began  to  have 
many  visitors  —  officers  from  the  French  lines,  cor- 
respondents on  tours  of  the  Front,  and  once  even  an 
English  cabinet  member,  who  took  six  precious  lumps 
of  sugar  in  his  tea  and  dug  a  piece  of  shell  out  of  the 
wall  with  his  pocketknife  as  a  souvenir. 

Once  a  British  aviator  brought  his  machine  down  in 
the  field  by  the  mill,  and  walked  over  with  the  stiff 
stride  of  a  man  who  has  been  for  hours  in  the  air.  She 
gave  him  tea  and  bread  and  butter,  and  she  learned  then 
of  the  big  fighting  that  was  to  come. 

When  she  was  alone  she  thought  about  Henri. 
Generally  her  thoughts  were  tender;  always  they  were 
grateful.  But  she  was  greatly  puzzled.  He  had  said 
that  he  loved  her.  Then,  if  he  loved  her,  why  should 
he  not  be  gentle  and  kind  to  her?  Men  did  not  hurt 
the  women  they  loved.  And  because  she  was  hurt, 
she  was  rather  less  than  just.  He  had  not  asked  her 
to  marry  him.  He  had  said  that  he  loved  her,  but 
that  was  different.  And  the  insidious  poison  of  Har- 
vey's letter  about  foreigners  began  to  have  its  effect. 


83 


The  truth  was  that  she  was  tired.  The  strain  was 
telling  on  her.  And  at  a  time  when  she  needed  every 
moral  support  Henri  had  drawn  off  behind  a  wall  of 
misery,  and  all  her  efforts  at  a  renewal  of  their  old 
friendship  only  brought  up  against  a  sort  of  stony 
despair. 

There  were  times,  too,  when  she  grew  a  little  fright- 
ened. She  was  so  alone.  What  if  Henri  went  away 
altogether?  What  if  he  took  away  the  little  car,  and 
his  protection,  and  the  supplies  that  came  so  regularly? 
It  was  not  a  selfish  fear.  It  was:  for  her  work  that  she 
trembled. 

For  the  first  time  she  realized  her  complete  depend- 
ence on  his  good  will.  And  now  and  then  she  felt 
that  it  would  be  good  to  see  Harvey  again,  and  be  safe 
from  all  worry,  and  not  have  to  depend  on  a  man  who 
loved  her  as  Henri  did.  For  that  she  never  doubted. 
Inexperienced  as  she  was  in  such  matters,  she  knew 
that  the  boy  loved  her.  Just  how  wildly  she  did  not 
know  until  later,  too  late  to  undo  what  the  madness 
had  done. 

Then  one  day  a  strange  thing  happened.  It  had 
been  raining,  and  when  in  the  late  afternoon  the  sun 
came  out  it  gleamed  in  the  puddles  that  filled  the  shell 
holes  in  the  road  and  set  to  a  red  blaze  the  windows  of 
the  house  of  the  mill. 

First,  soaring  overhead,  came  a  half  dozen  friendly 
planes.  Next,  the  eyes  of  the  enemy  having  thus  been 
blinded,  so  to  speak,  there  came  a  regiment  of  fresh 
troops,  swinging  down  the  street  for  all  the  world  as 


1 84    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

though  the  German  Army  was  safely  drinking  beer  in 
Munich.  They  passed  Rene,  standing  open-mouthed 
in  the  doorway,  and  one  wag  of  a  Belgian  boy,  out  of 
sheer  joy  of  spring,  did  the  goose  step  as  he  passed  the 
little  sentry  and,  head  screwed  round  in  the  German 
salute,  crossed  his  eyes  over  his  impudent  nose. 

Came,  then,  the  planes.  Came  the  regiment,  which 
turned  off  into  a  field  and  there  spread  itself,  like  a 
snake  uncoiling,  into  a  double  line.  Came  a  machine, 
gray  and  battered,  containing  officers.  Came  a  general 
with  gold  braid  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  pleasant  smile. 
Came  the  strange  event. 

The  general  found  Sara  Lee  in  the  salle  a  manger 
cutting  cotton  into  three-inch  squares,  and  he  stood  in 
the  doorway  and  bowed  profoundly. 

"Mademoiselle  Kennedy?"  he  inquired. 

Sara  Lee  replied  to  that,  and  then  gave  a  quick 
thought  to  her  larder.  Because  generals  usually  meant 
tea.  But  this  time  at  last  Sara  Lee  was  to  r.eceive 
something,  not  to  give.  She  turned  very  white  when 
she  was  told,  and  said  she  had  not  deserved  it ;  she  was 
indeed  on  the  verge  of  declining,  not  knowing  that 
there  are  certain  things  one  does  not  decline.  But 
Marie  brought  her  hat  and  jacket  —  a  smiling,  tremu- 
lous Marie  —  and  Sara  Lee  put  them  on. 

The  general  was  very  tall.  In  her  short  skirt  and 
with  flying  hair  she  looked  like  a  child  beside  him  as 
they  walked  across  the  fields.  Suddenly  Sara  Lee  wa? 
terribly  afraid  she  was  going  to  cry. 

The  troops  stood  rigidly  at  attention.     And  a  cold 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     185 

wind  flapped  Sara  Lee's  skirts,  and  the  guns  hammered 
at  Ypres,  and  the  general  blew  on  his  fingers.  And 
soon  a  low  open  car  came  down  the  street  and  the  King 
got  out.  Sara  Lee  watched  him  coming  —  his  tall, 
slightly  stooped  figure,  his  fair  hair,  his  plain  blue  uni- 
form. Sara  Lee  had  never  seen  a  king  before,  and  she 
had  always  thought  of  them  as  sitting  up  on  a  sort  of 
platform  —  never  as  trudging  through  spring  mud. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  she  asked  nervously. 

"  He  will  shake  hands,  mademoiselle.  Bow  as  he 
approaches.  That  is  all." 

The  amazing  interlude,  indeed !  With  Sara  Lee 
being  decorated  by  the  King,  and  troops  drawn  up  to 
do  her  honor,  and  over  all  the  rumbling  of  the  great 
guns.  A  palpitating  and  dazed  Sara  Lee,  when  the 
decoration  was  fastened  to  her  black  jacket,  a  Sara 
Lee  whose  hat  blew  off  at  exactly  the  worst  moment 
and  rolled,  end  on,  like  a  hoop,  into  a  puddle. 

But,  oddly,  she  did  not  mind  about  the  hat.  She 
had  only  one  conscious  thought  just  then.  She  hoped 
that,  wherever  Uncle  James  might  be  in  that  world  of 
the  gone  before,  he  might  know  what  was  happening 
to  her  —  or  even  see  it.  He  would  have  liked  it.  He 
had  believed  in  the  Belgians  and  in  the  King.  And 
now 

The  King  did  not  go  at  once.  He  went  back  to  the 
little  house  and  went  through  it.  And  he  and  one  of 
his  generals  climbed  to  the  upper  floor,  and  the  King 
stood  looking  out  silently  toward  the  land  he  loved  and 
which  for  a  time  was  no  longer  his. 


1 86    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

He  came  down  after  a  time,  stooping  his  tall  figure 
in  the  low  doorway,  and  said  he  would  like  some  tea. 
So  Marie  put  the  kettle  on,  and  Sara  Lee  and  the  King 
talked.  It  was  all  rather  dazing.  Every  now  and 
then  she  forgot  certain  instructions  whispered  her  by 
the  general,  and  after  a  time  the  King  said:  "  Why 
do  you  do  that,  mademoiselle?  " 

For  Sara  Lee,  with  an  intent  face  and  moving  lips, 
had  been  stepping  backward. 

Sara  Lee  flushed  to  the  eyes. 

"  Because,  sire,  I  was  told  to  remain  at  a  distance  of 
six  feet." 

"  But  we  are  being  informal,"  said  the  King,  smil- 
ing. "  And  it  is  a  very  little  room." 

Sara  Lee,  who  had  been  taught  in  the  schoolroom 
that  kings  are  usurpers  of  the  divine  rights  of  the  peo- 
ple —  Sara  Lee  lost  just  a  bit  of  her  staunch  democracy 
that  day.  She  saw  the  King  of  the  Belgians  for  what 
he  really  was,  a  ruler,  but  a  symbol  as  well.  He  repre- 
sented his  country,  as  the  Flag  she  loved  represented 
hers.  The  flag  was  America,  the  King  was  Belgium. 
That  was  all. 

It  was  a  very  humble  and  flushed  Sara  Lee  who 
watched  the  gray  car  go  flying  up  the  street  later  on. 
She  went  in  and  told  the  whole  story  to  Harvey's  pic- 
ture, but  it  was  difficult  to  feel  that  he  was  hearing. 
His  eyes  were  turned  away  and  his  face  was  set  and 
stern.  And  at  last  she  gave  it  up.  This  thing  which 
meant  so  much  to  her  would  never  mean  'anything  to 
Harvey.  She  knew,  even  then,  what  he  would  say. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     187 

"  Decorate  you !  I  should  think  they  might.  Med- 
als are  cheap.  Everybody  over  there  is  getting  medals. 
You  feed  their  men  and  risk  your  life  and  your  reputa- 
tion, and  they  give  yon  a  thing  to  pin  on.  It's  cheap 
at  the  price." 

And  later  on  those  were  Harvey's  very  words.  But 
to  be  fair  to  him  they  were  but  the  sloughing  of  a 
wound  that  would  not  heal. 

That  evening  Henri  came  again.  He  was,  for  the 
first  time,  his  gay  self  again  —  at  least  on  the  surface. 
It  was  as  though,  knowing  what  he  was  going  into,  he 
would  leave  with  Sara  Lee  no  feeling,  if  he  never  re- 
turned, that  she  had  inflicted  a  lasting  hurt.  He  was 
everywhere  in  the  little  house,  elbowing  his  way  among 
the  men  with  his  cheery  nonsense,  bantering  the  weary 
ones  until  they  smiled,  carrying  hot  water  for  Sara 
Lee  and  helping  her  now  and  then  with  a  bad  dressing. 

"If  you  would  do  it  in  this  fashion,  mademoiselle," 
he  would  say,  "  with  one  turn  of  the  bandage  over  the 
elbow " 

"  But  it  won't  hold  that  way." 

"  You  say  that  to  me,  mademoiselle  ?  I  who  have 
taught  you  all  you  know  of  bandaging?  " 

They  would  wrangle  a  bit,  and  end  by  doing  it  in 
Sara  Lee's  way. 

He  had  a  fund  of  nonsense  that  he  drew  on,  too, 
when  a  dressing  was  painful.  It  would  run  like  this, 
to  an  early  accompaniment  of  groans: 

"  Pierre,  what  can  you  put  in  your  left  hand  that 


1 88    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

yon  cannot  place  in  the  right?  Stop  grunting  like  a 
pig,  and  think,  man !  " 

Pierre  would  give  a  final  rumble  and  begin  to  think 
deeply. 

"  I  cannot  think.  I  —  in  my  left  hand,  monsieur  le 
capitaine?  " 

"  In  your  left  hand," 

The  little  crowd  in  the  dressing  room  would  draw 
in  close  about  the  table  to  listen. 

"  I  do  not  know,  monsieur." 

"  Idiot !  "  Henri  would  say.  "  Your  right  elbow,, 
man!" 

And  the  dressing  was  clone. 

He  had  an  inexhaustible  stock  of  such  riddles,  al- 
most never  guessed.  He  would  tell  the  answer  and 
then  laugh  delightedly.  And  pain  seemed  to  leave  the 
little  room  when  he  entered  it 

It  was  that  night  that  Henri  disappeared. 


XVII 

THERE  was  a  question  to  settle,  and  it  was  for 
Henri  to  do  it.  Two  questions  indeed.  One 
was  a  matter  of  engineering,  and  before  the  bottom 
fell  out  of  his  world  Henri  had  studied  engineering. 
The  second  was  more  serious. 

For  the  first,  this  thing  had  happened.  Of  all  the 
trenches  to  be  held,  the  Belgians  had  undeniably  the 
worst.  Properly  speaking  they  were  not  trenches  at 
all,  but  shallow  gutters  dug  a  foot  or  two  into  the 
saturated  ground  and  then  built  man-high  with  bags 
of  earth  or  sand.  Here  and  there  they  were  not  dug 
at  all,  but  were  purely  shelters,  against  a  railway  em- 
bankment, of  planks  or  sandbags,  and  reen forced  by 
rails  from  the  deserted  track  behind  which  they  were 
hidden. 

For  this  corner  of  Belgium  had  been  saved  by  turn- 
ing it  into  a  shallow  lake.  By  opening  the  gates  in  the 
dikes  the  Allies  had  let  in  the  sea  and  placed  a  flood  in 
front  of  the  advancing  enemy.  The  battle  front  was 
a  reeking  pond.  The  opposing  armies  lived  like  duck 
hunters  in  a  swamp.  To  dig  a  foot  was  to  encounter 
water.  Machine  guns  here  and  there  sat  but  six  inches 
above  the  yellow  flood.  Men  lay  in  pools  to  fire  them. 
To  reach  outposts  were  narrow  paths  built  first  of  bags 
of  «arth  —  a  life  sometimes  for  every  bag.  And, 

189 


i9o    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

when  this  filling  was  sufficient,  on  top  a  path  of  fas- 
cines, bound  together  in  bundles,  made  a  footway. 

For  this  reason  the  Belgians  approached  their 
trenches  not  through  deep  cuts  which  gave  them  shelter 
but  with  no  other  cover  than  the  darkness  of  night. 
During  the  day  they  lay  in  their  shallow  dugouts,  cut 
off  from  any  connection  with  the  world  behind  them. 
Food,  cooked  miles  away,  came  up  at  night,  cold  and 
unappetizing.  For  water,  having  exhausted  their  can- 
teens, there  was  nothing  but  the  brackish  tide  before 
them,  ill  smelling  and  reeking  of  fever.  Water  carts 
trundled  forward  at  night,  but  often  they  were  far  too 
few. 

The  Belgians,  having  faced  their  future  through  long 
years  of  anxiety,  had  been  trained  to  fight.  In  a  way 
they  had  been  trained  to  fight  a  losing  war,  for  they 
could  not  hope  to  defeat  their  greedy  neighbor  on  the 
east.  But  now  they  found  themselves  fighting  almost 
not  at  all,  condemned  to  inactivity,  to  being  almost 
passively  slaughtered  by  enemy  artillery,  and  to  living 
under  such  conditions  as  would  have  sapped  the  cour- 
age of  a  less  desperate  people. 

To  add  to  the  difficulties,  not  only  did  the  sea  en- 
croach, turning  a  fertile  land  into  a  salt  marsh,  but 
the  winter  rains,  unusually  heavy  that  Iragic  first 
winter,  and  lacking  their  usual  egress  to  the  sea,  spread 
the  flood.  There  were  many  places  well  back  of  the 
lines  where  fields  were  flooded,  and  where  roads,  sadly 
needed,  lost  themselves  in  unfordable  wallows  of  mud 
and  water. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     191 

Henri  then,  knowing  all  this  —  none  better  —  had 
his  first  question  to  settle,  which  was  this :  As  spring 
advanced  the  flood  had  commenced  to  recede.  Time 
came  when,  in  those  trenches  now  huddled  shallow  be- 
hind the  railway  track,  one  could  live  in  a  certain  com- 
fort. In  the  deeper  ones  the  bottom  of  the  trench 
appeared  for  the  first  time. 

On  a  day  previous,  however,  the  water  had  com- 
menced to  come  back.  There  had  been  no  rain,  but 
little  by  little  in  a  certain  place  yellow,  ill-smelling  little 
streams  began  to  flow  sluggishly  into  the  trenches. 
Seeped,  rather  than  flowed.  At  first  the  Belgian  offi- 
cers laid  it  to  that  bad  luck  that  had  so  persistently  pur- 
sued them.  Then  they  held  a  conference  in  the  small 
brick  house  with  its  maps  and  its  pine  tables  and  its 
picture  of  an  American  harvester  on  the  wall,  which 
was  now  headquarters. 

Sitting  under  the  hanging  lamp,  with  an  orderly 
making  coffee  at  a  stove  in  the  corner,  they  talked  it 
over.  Henri  was  there,  silent  before  his  elders,  but  in- 
tently listening.  And  at  last  they  turned  to  him. 

"'I  can  go  and  find  out,"  he  said  quietly.  "It  is 
possible,  though  I  do  not  see  how."  He  smiled. 
"  They  are,  I  think,  only  drying  themselves  at  our  ex- 
pense. It  is  a  bit  of  German  humor." 

But  the  cry  of  "  Calais  in  a  month !  "  was  in  the  air, 
and  undoubtedly  there  had  been  renewed  activity  along 
the  German  Front  near  the  sea.  The  second  question 
to  be  answered  was  dependent  on  the  first. 

Had  the  Germans,  as  Henri  said,  merely  shifted  the 


192    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

water,  by  some  clever  engineering,  to  the  Belgian 
trenches,  or  was  there  some  bigger  tiling  on  hand? 
What,  for  instance,  if  they  were  about  to  attempt  to 
drain  the  inundation,  smash  the  Belgian  line,  and  march 
by  the  Dunkirk  road  to  Calais  ? 

So,  that  night  while  Henri  jested  about  Pierre's  right 
elbow  and  watched  Sara  Lee  for  a  smile,  he  had  diffi- 
cult work  before  him. 

Sometime  near  midnight  he  slipped  away.  Jean 
was  waiting  in  the  street,  and  wrung  the  boy's  hand. 

"  I  could  go  with  you,"  he  said  rather  wistfully. 

«    T   » 

"  You  don't  speak  their  ugly  tongue." 

"  I  could  be  mute  —  shell  shock.  You  could  be 
helping  me  back." 

But  Henri  only  held  his  hand  a  moment  and  shook 
his  head. 

"  You  would  double  the  risk,  and  —  what  good 
would  it  do  ?  " 

"  Two  pistols  are  better  than  one." 

"  I  have  two  pistols,  my  friend,"  said  Henri,  and 
turned  the  corner  of  the  building,  past  the  boards  Rene 
had  built  in,  toward  the  house  of  the  mill.  But  once 
out  of  Jean's  sight  he  stopped  a  moment,  his  hand  rest- 
ing against  that  frail  wall  to  Sara  Lee's  room.  It  was 
his  good-by  to  her. 

For  three  days  Jean  stayed  in  the  village.  He  slept 
at  the  mill,  but  he  came  for  his  meals  to  the  little  house. 
Once  he  went  to  Dunkirk  and  brought  out  provisions 
and  the  mail,  including  Sara  Lee's  monthly  allowance 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     193 

But  mostly  he  sat  in  the  mill  house  and  waited.  He 
could  not  read. 

"  You  do  not  eat  at  all,  Jean,"  Sara  Lee  said  to  him 
more  than  once.  And  twice  she  insisted  that  he  was 
feverish,  and  placed  a  hand  that  was  somewhat  marred 
with  much  peeling  of  vegetables,  on  his  forehead. 

"  I  am  entirely  well,  mademoiselle,"  he  would  say, 
and  draw  back.  He  had  anxieties  enough  just  now 
without  being  reminded  by  the  touch  of  a  woman's 
hand  of  all  that  he  had  lost. 

Long  before  that  Sara  Lee  had  learned  not  to  ques- 
tion Jean  about  Henri's  absences.  Even  his  knowl- 
edge, now,  that  she  knew  something  of  Henri's 
work,  did  not  remove  the  barrier.  So  Sara  Lee  waited, 
as  did  Jean,  but  more  helplessly.  She  knew  something 
was  wrong,  but  she  had  not  Jean's  privilege  of  going 
at  night  to  the  trenches  and  there  waiting,  staring  over 
the  gray  water  with  its  ugly  floating  shadows,  for 
Henri  to  emerge  from  the  flood. 

Something  rather  forced  and  mechanical  there  was 
those  days  in  her  work.  Her  smile  was  rather  set. 
She  did  not  sleep  well.  And  one  night  she  violated 
Henri's  orders  and  walked  across  the  softened  fields 
to  beyond  the  poplar  trees. 

There  was  nothing  to  see  except  an  intermittent 
flash  from  the  clouds  that  hung  low  over  the  sea  at 
Nieuport,  where  British  gunboats  were  bombarding  the 
coast;  or  the  steady  streaks  from  the  Ypres  salient, 
where  night  and  day  the  guns  never  rested. 

From  the  Belgian  trenches,  fifteen  hundred  feet  or 


194    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

so  away,   there   was  no   sound.     A   German  electric 
signal  blazed  its  message  in  code,  and  went  out  quickly. 
Now  and  then  a  rifle  shot,  thin  and  sharp,  rang  out( 
from  where,  under  the  floating  starlights,  keen  eyes  on 
each  side  watched  for  movements  on  the  other. 

Sara  Lee  sat  down  under  a  tree  and  watched  for  a 
while.  Then  she  found  herself  crying  softly.  It  was 
all  so  sad,  a"nd  useless,  and  cruel.  And  somewhere 
there  ahead  was  Henri,  Henri  with  his  blue  eyes,  his 
smile,  the  ardor  of  his  young  arms  —  Henri,  who  had 
been  to  her  many  friends. 

Sara  Lee  had  never  deceived  herself  about  Henri, 
She  loved  him.  But  she  was  quite  certain  she  was  not 
in  love  with  him,  which  is  entirely  different.  She  knew 
that  this  last  was  impossible,  because  she  was  engaged 
to  Harvey.  What  was  probably  the  truth  was  that  she 
loved  them  both  in  entirely  different  ways.  Men  have 
always  insisted  on  such  possibilities,  and  have  even  as- 
serted their  right,  now  and  then,  to  love  two  women  at 
the  same  time.  But  women  are  less  frank  with  them- 
selves. 

And,  in  such  cases,  there  is  no  grand  passion.  There 
are  tenderness,  and  the  joy  of  companionship,  and 
sometimes  a  touching  dependence.  But  it  is  not  a  love 
that  burns  with  a  white  fire. 

Perhaps  Sara  Lee  was  one  of  those  women  who  are 
always  loved  more  than  they  love.  There  are  such 
women,  not  selfish,  not  seeking  love,  but  softly  femi- 
nine, kind,  appealing  and  genuine.  Men  need,  after 
all,  but  an  altar  on  which  to  lay  tribute.  And  the  high, 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    195 

remote  white  altar  that  was  Sara  Lee  had  already  re- 
ceived the  love  of  two  strong  men. 

She  was  not  troubling  her  head  that  night,  however, 
about  being  an  altar,  of  a  sort.  She  cried  a  little  at 
first,  because  she  was  terrified  for  Henri  and  because 
Jean's  face  was  growing  pinched  and  gray.  Then  she 
cried  very  hard,  prone  on  the  ground  and  face  down, 
because  Henri  was  young,  and  all  of  life  should  have 
been  before  him.  And  he  was  missing. 

Henri  was  undeniably  missing.  Even  the  King 
knew  it  now,  and  set  down  in  his  heart,  among  the 
other  crosses  there,  Henri's  full  name,  which  we  may 
not  know,  and  took  to  pacing  his  little  study  and  look- 
ing out  at  the  spring  sea. 

That  night  Marie,  having  ladled  to  the  bottom  oi 
her  kettle,  found  Sara  Lee  missing,  and  was  told  by 
Rene  of  the  direction  she  had  taken.  Marie,  muttering 
to  herself,  set  out  to  find  her,  and  almost  stumbled  over 
her  in  the  wood  by  the  road. 

She  sat  down  on  the  ground  without  a  word  and 
placed  a  clumsy  hand  on  the  girl's  shoulder.  It  was 
not  until  Sara  Lee  ceased  sobbing  that  she  spoke : 

"  It  is  far  from  hopeless,  mademoiselle." 

They  had  by  now  established  a  system  of  communi- 
cation. Sara  Lee  spoke  her  orders  in  halting  French, 
but  general  conversation  was  beyond  her.  And  much 
hearing  of  English  had  taught  the  Belgian  girl  enough 
to  follow. 

Sara  Lee  replied,  then,  in  smothered  English : 

"  He  is  gone,  Marie.     He  will  never  come  back." 


196    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  Who  can  tell  ?  There  are  many  missing  who  are 
not  dead." 

Sara  Lee  shuddered.  For  spies  were  not  made  pris- 
oners. They  had  no  rights  as  prisoners  of  war. 
Their  own  governments  did  not  protect  them.  To 
Henri  capture  was  death.  But  she  could  not  say  this 
to  Marie. 

Marie  sat  softly  stroking  Sara  Lee's  hair,  her  own 
eyes  tragic  and  tearless. 

"  Even  if  it  were  —  the  other,"  she  said,  "  it  is  not 
so  bad  to  die  for  one's  country.  The  thing  that  is  ter- 
rible, that  leaves  behind  it  only  bitterness  and  grief  and 
no  hope,  mademoiselle,  even  with  many  prayers,  is  that 
one  has  died  a  traitor." 

She  coaxed  Sara  Lee  back  at  last.  They  went 
through  the  fields,  for  fresh  troops  were  being  thrown 
into  the  Belgian  trenches  and  the  street  was  full  of 
men.  Great  dray  horses  were  dragging  forward 
batteries,  the  heavy  guns  sliding  and  slipping.  In 
the  absence  of  such  information  as  only  Henri  had 
been  wont  to  bring  it  was  best  to  provide  for  the 
worst. 

The  next  day  Jean  did  not  come  over  for  breakfast, 
and  Rene  handed  Sara  Lee  a  note. 

"  I  am  going  to  England,"  Jean  had  written  that 
dawn  in  the  house  of  the  mill.  "  And  from  there  to 
Holland.  I  can  get  past  the  barrier  and  shall  work 
down  toward  the  Front.  I  must  learn  what  has  hap- 
pened, mademoiselle.  As  you  know,  if  he  was  cap- 
tured, there  is  no  hope.  But  there  is  an  excellent 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    197 

chance  that  he  is  in  hiding,  unable  to  get  back.  Look 
for  me  in  two  weeks." 

There  followed  what  instructions  he  had  given  as  to 
her  supplies,  which  would  come  as  before.  Beautifully 
written  in  Jean's  small  fine  hand,  it  spelled  for  Sara 
Lee  the  last  hope.  She  read  Jean's  desperation 
through  its  forced  cheerfulness.  And  she  faced  for 
the  first  time  a  long  period  of  loneliness  in  the  crowded 
little  house. 

She  tried  very  hard  to  fill  the  gap  that  Henri  had 
left  —  tried  to  joke  with  the  men  in  her  queer  bits  of 
French;  was  more  smiling  than  ever,  for  fear  she 
might  be  less.  But  now  and  then  in  cautious  whis- 
pers she  heard  Henri's  name,  and  her  heart  contracted 
with  very  terror. 

A  week.  Two  weeks.  Twice  the  village  was  bom- 
barded severely,  but  the  little  house  escaped  by  a  mir- 
acle. Marie  considered  it  the  same  miracle  that  left 
holy  pictures  unhurt  on  the  walls  of  destroyed  houses, 
and  allowed  the  frailest  of  old  ebony  and  rosewood 
crucifixes  to  remain  unharmed. 

Great  generals,  often  as  tall  as  they  were  great, 
stopped  at  the  little  house  to  implore  Sara  Lee  to  leave. 
But  she  only  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  unless  you  send  me  away,"  she  always  said ; 
"  and  that  would  break  my  heart." 

"  But  to  move,  mademoiselle,  only  to  the  next  vil- 
lage !  "  they  would  remonstrate,  and  as  a  final  argu- 
ment: "  You  are  too  valuable  to  risk  an  injury." 

"  I  must  remain  here,"  she  said.     And  some  of  them 


i98    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

thought  they  understood.  When  an  unusually  obdu- 
rate officer  came  along,  Sara  Lee  would  insist  on  tak- 
ing him  to  the  cellar. 

"  You  see !  "  she  would  say,  holding  her  candle  high. 
"  It  is  a  nice  cellar,  warm  and  dry.  It  is  " —  proudly 
— "  one  of  the  best  cellars  in  the  village.  It  is  a  really 
homelike  cellar." 

The  officer  would  go  away  then,  and  send  her  cigar- 
ettes for  her  men  or,  as  in  more  than  one  case,  a  squad 
with  bags  of  earth  and  other  things  to  protect  the  little 
house  as  much  as  possible.  After  a  time  the  little 
house  began  to  represent  the  ideas  in  protection  and 
camouflage,  then  in  its  early  stages,  of  many  different 
minds. 

Rene  shot  a  man  there  one  night,  a  skulking  figure 
working  its  way  in  the  shadows  up  the  street.  It  was 
just  before  dawn,  and  Rene,  who  was  sleepless  those 
days,  like  the  others,  called  to  him.  The  man  started 
to  run,  dodging  behind  walls.  But  Rene  ran  faster  and 
killed  him. 

He  was  a  German  in  Belgian  peasant's  clothing. 
But  he  wore  the  great  shoes  of  the  German  soldier,  and 
he  had  been  making  a  rough  map  of  the  Belgian 
trenches. 

Sara  Lee  did  not  see  him.  But  when  she  heard  the 
shot  she  went  out,  and  Rene  told  her  breathlessly. 

From  that  time  on  her  terrors  took  the  definite  form 
of  Henri  lying  dead  in  a  ruined  street,  and  being  buried, 
as  this  man  was  buried,  without  ceremony  and  without 
a  prayer,  in  some  sodden  spring  field. 


XVIII 

AS  the  spring  advanced  Harvey  grew  increas- 
ingly bitter;  grew  morbid  and  increasingly  self- 
conscious  also.  He  began  to  think  that  people  were 
smiling  behind  his  back,  and  when  they  asked  about 
Sara  Lee  he  met  with  almost  insulting  brevity  what  he 
felt  was  half -contemptuous  kindness.  He  went  no- 
where, and  worked  all  day  and  until  late  in  the  night. 

He  did  well  in  his  business,  however,  and  late  in 
March  he  received  a  substantial  raise  in  salary.  He 
took  it  wnnout  enthusiasm,  and  told  Belle  that  night  at 
dinner  with  apathy. 

After  the  evening  meal  it  was  now  his  custom  to  go 
to  his  room  and  there,  shut  in,  to  read.  He  read  no 
books  on  the  war,  and  even  the  quarter  column  entitled 
Salient  Points  of  the  Day's  War  News  hardly  received 
a  glance  from  him  now. 

In  the  office  when  the  talk  turned  to  the  war,  as  it  did 
almost  hourly,  he  would  go  out  or  scowl  over  his  let- 
ters. 

"  Harvey's  hit  hard,"  they  said  there. 

"  He's  acting  like  a  rotten  cub,"  was  likely  to  be  the 
next  sentence.  But  sometimes  it  was :  "  Well,  what'd 
you  expect  ?  Everything  ready  to  get  married,  and  the 
girl  beating  it  for  France  without  notice !  I'd  be  sore 
myself." 

On  the  day  of  the  raise  in  salary  his  sister  got  the 

199 


200    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

children  to  bed  and  straightened  up  the  litter  of  small 
garments  that  seemed  always  to  bestrew  the  house, 
even  to  the  lower  floor.  Then  she  went  into  Harvey's 
room.  Coat  and  collar  off,  he  was  lying  on  the  bed, 
but  not  reading.  His  book  lay  beside  him,  and  with 
his  arms  under  his  head  he  was  staring  at  the  ceiling. 

She  did  not  sit  down  beside  him  on  the  bed.  They 
were  an  undemonstrative  family,  and  such  endearments 
as  Belle  used  were  lavished  on  her  children.  But  her 
eyes  were  kind,  and  a  little  nervous. 

"  Do  you  mind  talking  a  little,  Harvey?  " 

"  I  don't  feel  like  talking  much.  I'm  tired,  I  guess 
But  go  on.  What  is  it  ?  Bills  ?  " 

She  came  to  him  in  her  constant  financial  anxieties, 
and  always  he  was  ready  to  help  her  out.  But  his  tone 
now  was  gruff.  A  slight  flush  of  resentment  colored 
her  cheeks. 

"  Not  this  time,  Harve.  I  was  just  thinking  about 
things." 

"  Sit  down." 

She  sat  on  the  straight  chair  beside  the  bed,  the  chair 
on  which,  in  neat  order,  Harvey  placed  his  clothing  at 
night,  his  shoes  beneath,  his  coat  over  the  back. 

"  I  wish  you'd  go  out  more,  Harvey." 

"  Why  ?  Go  out  and  talk  to  a  lot  of  driveling  fools 
who  don't  care  for  me  any  more  than  I  do  for  them  ?  " 

"  That's  not  like  you,  Harve." 

"  Sorry."  His  tone  softened.  "  I  don't  care  much 
about  going  round,  Belle.  That's  all.  I  guess  you 
know  why." 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     201 

"  So  does  everybody  else." 

He  sat  up  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Well,  suppose  they  do?  I  can't  help  that,  can  I? 
When  a  fellow  has  been  jilted " 

"  You  haven't  been  jilted." 

He  lay  down  again,  his  arms  under  his  head;  and 
Belle  knew  that  his  eyes  were  on  Sara  Lee's  picture  on 
his  dresser. 

"  It  amounts  to  the  same  thing." 

"  Harvey,"  Belle  said  hesitatingly,  "  I've  brought 
Sara  Lee's  report  from  the  Ladies'  Aid.  May  1  read  it 
to  you?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  it."  Then:  "  Give  it  here. 
I'll  look  at  it." 

He  read  it  carefully,  his  hands  rather  unsteady.  So 
many  men  given  soup,  so  many  given  chocolate.  So 
many  dressings  done.  And  at  the  bottom  Sara  Lee's 
request  for  more  money  —  an  apologetic,  rather  breath- 
less request,  and  closing,  rather  primly  with  this : 

"  I  am  sure  that  the  society  will  feel,  from  the  above 
report,  that  the  work  is  worth  while,  and  worth  con- 
tinuing. I  am  only  sorry  that  I  cannot  send  photo- 
graphs of  the  men  who  come  for  aid,  but  as  they  come 
at  night  it  is  impossible.  I  enclose,  however,  a  small 
picture  of  the  house,  which  is  now  known  as  the  little 
house  of  mercy." 

"  At  night !  "  said  Harvey.  "  So  she's  there  alone 
with  a  lot  of  ignorant  foreigners  at  night.  Why  the 
devil  don't  they  come  in  the  daytime?  " 

"  Here's  the  picture,  Harvey." 


202    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

He  got  up  then,  and  carried  the  tiny  photograph  over 
close  to  the  gas  jet.  There  he  stood  for  a  long  time, 
gazing  at  it.  There  was  Rene  with  his  rifle  and  his 
smile.  There  was  Marie  in  her  white  apron.  And  in 
the  center,  the  wind  blowing  her  soft  hair,  was  Sara 
Lee. 

Harvey  groaned  and  Belle  came  over  and  putting  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder  looked  at  the  photograph  with 
him. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  think,  Harvey?"  she  said. 
"  I  think  Sara  Lee  is  right  and  you  are  wrong." 

He  turned  on  her  almost  savagely. 

"  That's  not  the  point !  "  he  snapped  out.  "  I  don't 
begrudge  the  poor  devils  their  soup.  What  I  feel  is 
this :  If  she'd  cared  a  tinker's  dam  for  me  she'd  never 
have  gone.  That's  all." 

He  returned  to  a  moody  survey  of  the  picture. 

"  Look  at  it!  "  he  said.  "  She  insists  that  she's  safe. 
But  that  fellow's  got  a  gun.  What  for,  if  she's  so 
safe  ?  And  look  at  that  house !  There's  a  corner  shot 
away;  and  it's  got  no  upper  floor.  Safe!  " 

Belle  held  out  her  hand. 

"  I  must  return  the  picture  to  the  society,  Harve." 

"  Not  just  yet,"  he  said  ominously.  "  I  want  to 
look  at  it.  I  haven't  got  it  all  yet.  And  I'll  return  it 
myself  —  with  a  short  speech." 

"Harvey!" 

"  Well,"  he  retorted,  "  why  shouldn't  I  tell  that  lot 
of  old  scandalmongers  what  I  think  of  them?  They'll 
sit  here  safe  at  home  and  beg  money  —  God,  one  of 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    203 

them  was  in  the  office  to-day !  —  and  send  a  young  girl 

over  to You'd  better  get  out,  Belle.  I'm  not 

company  for  any  one  to-night." 

She  turned  away,  but  he  came  after  her,  and  sud- 
denly putting  his  arms  round  her  he  kissed  her. 

"  Don't  worry  about  me,"  he  said.  "  I'm  done  with 
wearing  my  heart  on  my  sleeve.  She  looks  happy,  so 
I  guess  I  can  be."  He  released  her.  "  Good  night. 
I'll  return  the  picture." 

He  sat  up  very  late,  alternately  reading  the  report 
and  looking  at  the  picture.  It  was  unfortunate  that 
Sara  Lee  had  smiled  into  the  camera.  Coupled  with 
her  blowing  hair  it  had  given  her  a  light-heartedness,  a 
sort  of  joyousness,  that  hurt  him  to  the  soul. 

He  made  some  mad  plans  after  he  had  turned  out 
the  lights  —  to  flirt  wildly  with  the  unattached  girls 
he  knew;  to  go  to  France  and  confront  Sara  Lee  and 
then  bring  her  home.  Or 

He  had  found  a  way.  He  lay  there  and  thought  it 
over,  and  it  bore  the  test  of  the  broken  sleep  that  fol- 
lowed. In  the  morning,  dressing,  he  wondered  he  had 
not  thought  of  it  before.  He  was  more  cheerful  at 
breakfast  than  he  had  been  for  weeks. 


XIX 

IN  the  little  house  of  mercy  two  weeks  went  by, 
and  then  a  third.  Soldiers  marching  out  to  the 
trenches  sometimes  wore  flowers  tucked  gayly  in  their 
caps.  More  and  more  Allied  aeroplanes  were  in  the 
air.  Sometimes,  standing  in  the  streets,  Sara  Lee  saw 
one  far  overhead,  while  balloon-shaped  clouds  of  burst- 
ing shells  hung  far  below  it. 

Once  or  twice  in  the  early  morning  a  German  plane, 
flying  so  low  that  one  could  easily  see  the  black  cross 
on  each  wing,  reconnoitered  the  village  for  wagon 
trains  or  troops.  Always  they  found  it  empty. 

Hope  had  almost  fled  now.  In  the  afternoons  Marie 
went  to  the  ruined  church,  and  there  knelt  before  the 
heap  of  marble  and  masonry  that  had  once  been  the 
altar,  and  prayed.  And  Sara  Lee,  who  had  been 
brought  up  a  Protestant  and  had  never  before  entered 
a  Catholic  church,  took  to  going  there  too.  In  some 
strange  fashion  the  peace  of  former  days  seemed  to 
cling  to  the  little  structure,  roofless  as  it  was.  On  quiet 
days  it  silence  was  deeper  than  elsewhere.  On  days 
of  much  firing  the  sound  from  within  its  broken  walls 
seemed  deadened,  far  away. 

Marie  burned  a  candle  as  she  prayed,  for  that  soul 
in  purgatory  which  she  had  once  loved,  and  now  pitied. 
Sara  Lee  burned  no  candle,  but  she  knelt,  sometimes 

205 


206    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

beside  Marie,  sometimes  alone,  and  prayed  for  many 
things :  that  Henri  should  be  living,  somewhere ;  that 
the  war  might  end ;  that  that  day  there  would  be  little 
wounding;  that  some  day  the  Belgians  might  go  home 
again  ;  and  that  back  in  America  Harvey  might  grow  to 
understand  and  forgive  her.  And  now  and  then  she 
looked  into  the  very  depths  of  her  soul,  and  on  those 
days  she  prayed  that  her  homeland  might,  before  it  was 
too  late,  see  this  thing  as  she  was  seeing  it.  The  wan- 
ton waste  of  it  all,  the  ghastly  cruelty  the  Germans 
had  brought  into  this  war. 

Sara  Lee's  vague  thinking  began  tO  crystallize. 
This  war  was  not  a  judgment  sent  from  on  high  to  a 
sinful  world.  It  was  the  wicked  imposition  of  one 
nation  on  other  nations.  It  was  national.  It  was  al- 
most racial.  But  most  of  all  it  was  a  war  of  hate  on 
the  German  side.  She  had  never  believed  in  hate. 
There  were  ugly  passions  in  the  world  —  jealousy, 
envy,  suspicion;  but  not  hate.  The  word  was  not  in 
her  rather  limited  vocabulary. 

There  was  no  hate  on  the  part  of  the  men  she  knew. 
The  officers  who  stopped  in  on  their  way  to  and  from 
the  trenches  were  gentlemen  and  soldiers.  They  were 
determined  and  grave;  they  resented,  they  even 
loathed.  But  they  did  not  hate.  The  little  Belgian 
soldiers  were  bewildered,  puzzled,  desperately  resent- 
ful. But  of  hate,  as  translated  into  terms  of  frightful- 
ness,  they  had  no  understanding. 

Yet  from  the  other  side  were  coming  methods  of 
war  so  wantonly  cruel,  so  useless  save  as  inflicting  need- 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    207 

less  agony,  as  only  hate  could  devise.  No  strategic 
value  justified  them.  They  were  spontaneous  out- 
growths of  venom,  nursed  during  the  winter  deadlock 
and  now  grown  to  full  size  and  destructive  power. 

The  rumor  of  a  gas  that  seared  and  killed  came  to 
the  little  house  as  early  as  February.  In  March  there 
came  the  first  victims,  poor  writhing  creatures,  de- 
prived of  the  boon  of  air,  their  seared  lungs  collapsed 
and  agonized,  their  faces  drawn  into  masks  of  suffer- 
ing. Some  of  them  died  in  the  little  house,  and  even 
after  death  their  faces  held  the  imprint  of  horror. 

To  Sara  Lee,  burying  her  own  anxiety  under  the 
cloak  of  service,  there  came  new  and  terrible  thoughts. 
This  was  not  war.  The  Germans  had  sent  their  clouds 
of  poisoned  gas  across  the  inundation,  but  had  made 
no  attempt  to  follow.  This  was  killing,  for  the  lust  of 
killing;  suffering,  for  the  joy  of  inflicting  pain. 

And  a  day  or  so  later  she  heard  of  The  Hague  Con- 
vention. She  had  not  known  of  it  before.  Now  she 
learned  of  that  gentlemen's  agreement  among  nations, 
and  that  it  said:  "  The  use  of  poison  or  of  poisoned 
weapons  is  forbidden."  She  pondered  that  carefully, 
trying  to  think  dispassionately.  Now  and  then  she  re- 
ceived a  copy  of  a  home  newspaper,  and  she  saw  that 
the  use  of  poison  gases  was  being  denied  by  Germans 
in  America  and  set  down  to  rumor  and  hysteria. 

So,  on  a  cold  spring  day,  she  sat  down  at  the  table 
in  the  salle  a  manger  and  wrote  a  letter  to  the  Presi- 
dent, beginning  "  Dear  Sir  " ;  and  telling  what  she  knew 
of  poison  gas.  She  also,  on  second  thought,  wrote 


208    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

one  to  Andrew  Carnegie,  who  had  built  a  library  in 
her  city.  She  felt  that  the  expense  to  him  of  sending 
some  one  over  to  investigate  would  not  be  prohibitive, 
and  something  must  be  done. 

She  never  heard  from  either  of  her  letters,  but  she 
felt  better  for  having  written  them.  And  a  day  or 
two  later  she  received  from  Mrs.  Travers,  in  England, 
a  small  supply  of  the  first  gas  masks  of  the  war.  Sim- 
ple and  primitive  they  were,  those  first  masks;  useless, 
too,  as  it  turned  out  —  a  square  of  folded  gauze,  soaked 
in  some  solution  and  then  dried,  with  tapes  to  tie  it  over 
the  mouth  and  nose.  To  adjust  them  the  soldiers  had 
but  to  stoop  and  wet  them  in  the  ever-present  water  in 
the  trench,  and  then  to  tie  them  on. 

Sara  Lee  gave  them  out  that  night,  and  there  was 
much  mirth  in  the  little  house,  such  mirth  as  there  had 
not  been  since  Henri  went  away.  The  Belgians 
called  it  a  bal  masque,  and  putting  them  on  bowed  be- 
fore one  another  and  requested  dances,  and  even  flirted 
coyly  with  each  other  over  their  bits  of  white  gauze. 
And  in  the  very  middle  of  the  gayety  some  one  pro- 
pounded one  of  Henri's  idiotic  riddles;  and  Sara  Lee 
went  across  to  her  little  room  and  closed  the  door  and 
stood  there  with  her  eyes  shut,  for  fear  she  would 
scream. 

Then,  one  day,  coming  out  of  the  little  church,  she 
saw  the  low  broken  gray  car  turn  in  at  the  top  of  the 
street  and  come  slowly,  so  very  slowly,  toward  her 
There  were  two  men  in  it. 

One  was  Henri. 


209 


She  ran,  stumbling  because  of  tears,  up  the  street. 
It  was  Henri !  There  was  no  mistake.  There  he  sat 
beside  Jean,  brushed  and  very  neat;  and  very,  very 
white. 

"Mademoiselle!"  he  said,  and  came  very  close  to 
crying  himself  when  he  saw  her  face.  He  was  greatly 
excited.  His  sunken  eyes  devoured  her  as  she  ran  to- 
ward him.  Almost  he  held  out  his  arms.  But  he 
could  not  do  that,  even  if  he  would,  for  one  was  band- 
aged to  his  side. 

It  is  rather  sad  to  record  how  many  times  Sara  Lee 
wept  during  her  amazing  interlude.  For  here  is  an- 
other time.  She  wept  for  joy  and  wretchedness.  She 
stood  on  the  running  board  and  cried  and  smiled.  And 
Jean  winked  his  one  eye  rapidly. 

"  This  idiot,  mademoiselle,"  he  said  gruffly,  "  this 
maniac  —  he  would  not  remain  in  Calais,  with  proper 
care.  He  must  come  on  here.  And  rapidly.  Could 
he  have  taken  the  wheel  from  me  we  should  have  been 
here  an  hour  ago.  But  for  once  I  have  an  advantage." 

The  car  jolted  to  the  little  house,  and  Jean  helped 
Henri  out.  Such  a  strange  Henri,  smiling  and  joyous, 
and  walking  at  a  crawl,  even  with  Jean's  support.  He 
protested  violently  against  being  put  to  bed,  and  when 
he  found  himself  led  into  Sara  Lee's  small  room  he 
openly  rebelled. 

"Never!"  he  said  stubbornly,  halting  in  the  door- 
way. "  This  is  mademoiselle's  boudoir.  Her  — 
drawing-room  as  well.  I  am  going  to  the  mill  house 
and  — " 


210    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

He  staggered. 

So  Sara  Lee's  room  had  a  different  occupant  for  a 
time,  a  thin  and  fine-worn  young  Belgian,  who  yielded 
to  Sara  Lee  when  Jean  gave  up  in  despair,  and  who 
proceeded,  most  unman  fully,  to  faint  as  soon  as  he  was 
between  the  blankets. 

If  Sara  Lee  hoped  to  nurse  Henri  she  was  doomed 
to  disappointment.  Jean  it  was  who  took  over  the 
care  of  the  boy,  a  Jean  who  now  ate  prodigiously,  and 
whistled  occasionally,  and  slept  at  night  robed  in  his 
blanket  on  the  floor  beside  Henri's  bed,  lest  that  rebel- 
lious invalid  get  up  and  try  to  move  about. 

On  the  first  m'ght,  with  the  door  closed,  against 
Henri's  entreaties,  while  the  little  house  received  its 
evening  complement  of  men,  and  with  Henri  lying  back 
on  his  pillows,  fresh  dressed  as  to  the  wounds  in  his 
arm  and  chest,  fed  with  Sara  Lee's  daintiest,  and  rest- 
ing, Jean  found  the  boy's  eyes  resting  on  the  mantel. 

"  Dear  and  obstinate  friend,"  said  Henri,  "  do  you 
wish  me  to  be  happy  ?  " 

"  You  shall  not  leave  the  room  or  your  bed.  That 
is  arranged  for." 

"  How  ?  "  demanded  Henri  with  interest. 

"  Because  I  have  hidden  away  your  trousers." 

Henri  laughed,  but  he  sobered  quickly. 

"  If  you  wish  me  to  be  happy,"  he  said,  "  take  away 
that  American  photograph.  But  first,  please  to  bring 
it  here." 

Jean  brought  it,  holding  it  gingerly  between  his 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    211 

thumb    and    forefinger.     And    Henri    lay    back    and 
studied  it. 

"  It  is  mademoiselle's  fiance,"  he  said. 

Jean  grunted. 

"  Look  at  it,  Jean,"  Henri  said  in  his  half-bantering 
tone,  with  despair  beneath  it ;  "  and  then  look  at  me. 
Or  no  —  remembering  me  as  I  was  when  I  was  a  man. 
He  is  better,  eh?  It  is  a  good  face.  But  there  is  a 

jaw,  a Do  you  think  he  will  be  kind  to  her  as 

she   requires?     She   requires  much   kindness.     Some 
women " 

He  broke  off  and  watched  Jean  anxiously. 

"  A  half  face !  "  Jean  said  scornfully.  "  The  pretty 
view!  As  for  kindness "  He  put  the  photo- 
graph face  down  on  the  table  "  I  knew  once  a  man 
in  Belgium  who  married  an  American.  At  Antwerp. 
They  were  most  unhappy." 

Henri  smiled. 

"  You  are  lying,"  he  said  with  boyish  pleasure  in  his 
own  astuteness.  "  You  knew  no  such  couple.  You 
are  trying  to  make  me  resigned." 

But  quite  a  little  later,  when  Jean  thought  he  was 
asleep,  he  said :  "  I  shall  never  be  resigned." 

So  at  last  spring  had  come,  and  Henri  and  the  great 
spring  drive.  The  Germans  had  not  drained  the  in- 
undation, nor  had  they  broken  through  to  Calais.  And 
it  is  not  to  be  known  here  how  much  this  utter  failure 
had  been  due  to  the  information  Henri  had  secured 
before  he  was  wounded. 


212    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

One  day  in  his  bed  Henri  received  a  visit  from  the 
King,  and  was  left  lying  with  a  decoration  on  his 
breast  and  a  beatific,  if  somewhat  sheepish,  expression 
on  his  face.  And  one  night  the  village  was  bombarded, 
and  on  Henri's  refusing  to  be  moved  to  the  cellar.  Sara 
Lee  took  up  a  determined  stand  in  his  doorway,  until 
at  last  he  made  a  most  humiliating  move  for  safety. 

Bit  by  bit  Sara  Lee  got  the  story,  its  bare  detail  from 
Henri,  its  courage  and  sheer  recklessness  from  Jean. 
it  would,  for  instance,  run  like  this,  with  Henri  in  & 
chair  perhaps,  and  cutting  dressings  —  since  that 
might  be  done  with  one  hand  —  and  Sara  Lee,  sleeves 
rolled  up  and  a  great  bowl  of  vegetables  before  her: 

"  And  when  you  got  through  the  water,  Henri  ?  " 
she  would  ask.  "  What  then  ?  " 

"  It  was  quite  simple.  They  had  put  up  some  ad- 
ditional wire,  however " 

"Where?" 

"  There  was  a  break,"  he  would  explain.  "  I  h?~e 
told  you  —  between  their  trenches.  I  had  used  it  be- 
fore to  get  through." 

"  But  how  could  you  go  through  ?  " 

"  Like  a  snake,"  he  would  say,  smiling.  "  Very  fiat 
and  wriggling.  I  have  eaten  of  the  dirt,  mademoi- 
selle." 

Then  he  would  stop  and  cut,  very  awkwardly,  with 
his  left  hand. 

"  Go  on,"  she  would  prompt  him.  "  But  they  had 
put  barbed  wire  there.  Is  that  it?  So  you  could  not 
get  through  ?  " 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    213 

"  With  tin  cans  on  it,  and  stones  in  the  cans.  I 
thought  I  had  removed  them  all,  but  there  was  one  left. 
So  they  heard  me." 

More  cutting  and  a  muttered  French  expletive. 
Henri  was  not  a  particularly  patient  cripple.  And  ap- 
parently there  was  an  end  to  the  story. 

"  For  goodness'  sake,"  Sara  Lee  would  exclaim  de- 
spairingly ;  "  so  they  heard  you !  That  isn't  all,  is  it  ?  " 

"  It  was  almost  all,"  he  would  say  with  his  boyish 
smile. 

"  And  they  shot  at  you?  " 

"  Even  better.  They  shot  me.  That  was  this  one." 
And  he  would  point  to  his  arm. 

More  silence,  more  cutting,  a  gathering  exasperation 
on  Sara  Lee's  part. 

*"  Are  you  going  on  or  not?  " 

"  Then  I  pretended  to  be  one  of  them,  mademoiselle. 
T  speak  German  as  French.  I  pretended  not  to  be- 
hurt,  but  to  be  on  a  reconnoissance.  And  I  got  into 
the  trench  and  we  had  a  talk  in  the  darkness.  It  was 
most  interesting-.  Only  if  they  had  shown  a  light  they 
would  have  seen  that  I  was  wounded." 

By  bits,  not  that  day,  but  after  many  days,  she  got 
the  story.  In  the  next  trench  he  slipped  a  sling  over 
the  wounded  arm  and,  as  a  Bavarian  on  his  way  to  the 
dressing  station,  got  back. 

"  I  had  some  trouble,"  he  confessed  one  day. 
"  Now  and  then  one  would  offer  to  go  back  with  me. 
And  I  did  not  care  for  assistance ! '" 

But   sometime  later  there  was  trouble.     She  was 


214    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

four  days  getting  to  that  part  of  it.  He  had  got  be- 
hind the  lines  by  that  time,  and  he  knew  that  in  some 
way  suspicion  had  been  roused.  He  was  weak  by  that 
time,  and  could  not  go  far.  He  had  lain  hidden,  for  a 
day  and  part  of  a  night,  without  water,  in  a  destroyed 
barn,  and  then  had  escaped. 

He  got  into  the  Belgian  costume  as  before,  but  he 
could  not  wear  a  sling  for  his  wounded  arm.  He  got 
the  peasant  to  thrust  his  helpless  right  hand  into  his 
pocket,  and  for  two  days  he  made  a  close  inspection 
of  what  was  going  on.  But  fever  had  developed,  and 
on  the  third  night,  half  delirious,  when  he  was  spoken 
to  by  an  officer  he  had  replied,  of  all  tongues,  in  Eng- 
lish. 

The  officer  shot  him  instantly  in  the  chest.  He  fell 
and  lay  still  and  the  officer  bent  over  him.  In  that 
moment  Henri  stabbed  him  with  a  knife  in  his  left 
hand.  Men  were  coming  from  every  direction,  but 
he  got  away  —  he  did  not  clearly  remember  how. 
And  at  dawn  he  fell  into  the  Belgian  farmhouse,  appar- 
ently dying. 

Jean's  story,  on  the  other  hand,  was  given  early  and 
with  no  hesitation.  He  had  crossed  the  border  at  Hol- 
land in  civilian  clothes,  by  the  simple  expedient  of 
bribing  a  sentry.  He  had  got,  with  little  difficulty,  to 
the  farmhouse,  and  found  Henri,  now  recovering  but 
very  weak ;  he  was  lying  hidden  in  a  garret,  and  he  was 
suffering  from  hunger  and  lack  of  medical  attention. 
In  a  wagon  full  of  market  stuff,  Henri  hidden  in  the 
bed  of  it,  they  had  got  to  the  border  again.  And  there 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     215 

Jean  had,  it  seemed,  stabbed  the  sentry  he  had  bribed 
before  and  driven  on  to  neutral  soil. 

Not  an  unusual  story,  that  of  Henri  and  Jean.  The 
journey  across  Belgium  in  the  springless  farm  wagon 
was  the  worst.  They  had  had  to  take  roundabout 
lanes,  avoiding  the  main  highways.  Fortunately,  al- 
ways at  night  there  were  friendly  houses,  kind  hands 
to  lift  Henri  into  warm  fire-lighted  interiors.  Many 
messages  they  nad  brought  back,  some  of  cheer,  but 
too  often  of  tragedy,  from  the  small  farmsteads  of 
Belgium. 

Then  finally  had  been  Holland,  and  the  chartering 
of  a  boat  —  and  at  last 

"  Here  we  are,  and  here  we  are,  and  here  we  are 
again,"  sang  Henri,  chopping  at  his  cotton  and  making 
a  great  show  of  cheerfulness  before  Sara  Lee. 

But  with  Jean  sometimes  he  showed  the  black  de- 
pression beneath.  He  would  never  be  a  man  again. 
He  was  done  for.  He  gained  strength  so  slowly  that 
he  believed  he  was  not  gaining  at  all.  He  was  not 
happy,  and  the  unhappy  mend  slowly. 

After  the  time  he  had  asked  Jean  to  take  away 
Harvey's  photograph  he  did  not  recur  to  the  subject, 
but  he  did  not  need  to.  Jean  knew,  perhaps  even  bet- 
ter than  Henri  himself,  that  the  boy  was  recklessly, 
hopelessly,  not  quite  rationally  in  love  with  the  Amer- 
ican girl. 

Also  Henri  was  fretting  about  his  work.  Some- 
times at  night,  following  Henri's  instructions,  Jean 
wandered  quietly  along  roads  and  paths  that  paralleled 


216    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

the  Front.  At  such  times  his  eyes  were  turned,  not 
toward  the  trenches,  but  toward  that  flat  country  which 
lay  behind,  still  dotted  at  that  time  with  groves  of 
trees,  with  canals  overhung  with  pollard  willows,  and 
with  here  and  there  a  farmhouse  that  at  night  took  on 
in  the  starlight  the  appearance  of  being  whole  again. 
Singularly  white  and  peaceful  were  those  small  stead- 
ings of  Belgium  in  the  night  hours  —  until  cruel  dawn 
showed  them  for  what  they  were  —  skeletons  of  dead 
homes,  clothed  only  at  night  with  wraithlike  roofs  and 
chimneys;  ghosts  of  houses,  appearing  between  mid' 
night  and  cock  crow. 

Jean  had  not  Henri's  eyes  nor  his  recklessness  nor 
his  speed,  for  that  matter.  Now  and  then  he  saw  the 
small  appearing  and  disappearing  lights  on  some  small 
rise.  He  would  reach  the  spot,  with  such  shelter  as 
possible,  to  find  onlv  a  sugar-beet  field,  neglected  and 
unplowed. 

Then,  one  night,  tragedy  came  to  the  little  house  of 
mercy. 


XX 

HARVEY  proceeded  to  put  his  plan  into  effect  at 
once,  with  the  simple  method  of  an  essentially 
simple   nature.     The   thing   had   become   intolerable; 
therefore  it  must  end. 

On  the  afternoon  following  his  talk  with  Belle  he 
came  home  at  three  o'clock.  Belle  heard  him  moving 
about  in  his  room,  ana  when  she  entered  it,  after  he 
had  gone,  she  found  that  he  had  shaved  and  put  on  his 
best  suit. 

She  smiled  a  little.  It  was  like  Harvey  to  be  literal. 
He  had  said  he  was  going  to  go  round  and  have  a  good 
time,  and  he  was  losing  no  time.  But  in  their  re- 
stricted social  life,  where  most  of  the  men  worked  until 
five  o'clock  or  even  later,  there  were  few  afternoon 
calls  paid.  Belle  wondered  with  mild  sisterly  curiosity 
into  what  arena  Harvey  was  about  to  fling  his  best  hat. 

But  though  Harvey  paid  a  call  that  afternoon  it  was 
not  on  any  of  the  young  women  he  knew.  He  went  to 
see  Mrs.  Gregory.  She  was  at  home  —  he  had  ar- 
ranged for  that  by  telephone  —  and  the  one  butler  of 
the  neighborhood  admitted  him.  It  was  a  truculent 
young  man,  for  all  his  politeness,  who  confronted  Mrs. 
Gregory  in  her  drawing-room  —  a  quietly  truculent 
young  man,  who  came  to  the  point  while  he  was  still 
shaking  hands. 

217 


zi8     THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  You're  not  going  to  be  glad  to  see  me  in  a  minute," 
he  said  in  reply  to  her  greeting. 

"  How  can  you  know  that?  " 

"  Because  I've  come  to  get  you  to  do  something  you 
won't  want  to  do." 

"  We  won't  quarrel  before  we  begin,  then,"  she  said 
pleasantly.  "  Because  I  really  never  do  anything  I 
don't  wish  to  do." 

But  she  gave  him  a  second  glance  and  her  smile 
became  a  trifle  forced.  She  knew  all  about  Harvey 
and  Sara  Lee.  She  had  heard  rumors  of  his  disap- 
proval also.  Though  she  was  not  a  clever  nor  a  very 
keen  woman,  she  saw  what  was  coming  and  braced 
herself  for  it. 

Harvey  had  prepared  in  his  mind  a  summary  of  his 
position,  and  he  delivered  it  with  the  rapidity  and 
strength  of  a  blow. 

"  I  know  all  about  the  Belgians,  Mrs.  Gregory,"  he 
said.  "  I'm  sorry  for  them.  So  is  every  one,  I  sup- 
pose. But  I  want  to  know  if  you  think  a  girl  of 
twenty  ought  to  be  over  there  practically  at  the  Front, 
and  alone?"  He  gave  her  time  to  reply.  "Would 
you  like  to  have  your  daughter  there,  if  you  had  one?  " 

"  Perhaps  not,  under  ordinary  circumstances.  But 
this  is  war " 

"  It  is  not  our  war." 

"  Humanity,"  said  Mrs.  Gregory,  remembering  the 
phrase  she  had  written  for  a  speech  — "  humanity  has 
no  nationality.  It  is  of  all  men,  for  all  men." 

"'  That's  men.     Not  women !  " 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    219 

He  got  up  and  stood  on  the  hearthrug.  He  was 
singularly  reminiscent  of  the  time  he  had  stood  on 
Aunt  Harriet's  white  fur  rug  and  had  told  Sara  Lee 
she  could  not  go. 

"  Now  see  here,  Mrs.  Gregory,"  he  said,  "  we'll  stop 
beating  about  the  bush,  if  you  don't  mind.  She's  got 
to  come  home.  She's  coming,  if  I  have  to  go  and  get 
her!" 

"  You  needn't  look  at  me  so  fiercely.  I  didn't  send 
her.  It  was  her  own  idea." 

Harvey  sneered. 

"  No,"  he  said  slowly.  "  But  I  notice  your  societ 
publishes  her  reports  in  the  papers,  and  that  the  namt 
of  the  officers  are  rarely  missing." 

Mrs.  Gregory  colored. 

"  We  must  have  publicity  to  get  money,"  she  said. 
"  It  is  hard  to  get.  Sometimes  I  have  had  to  make  up 
the  deficit  out  of  my  own  pocket." 

"  Then  for  God's  sake  bring  her  home !  If  the  thing 
has  to  go  on,  send  over  there  some  of  the  middle-aged 
women  who  have  no  ties.  Let  'em  get  shot  if  they 
want  to.  They  can  write  as  good  reports  as  she  can, 
if  that's  all  you  want.  And  make  as  good  soup,"  he 
added  bitterly. 

"  It  could  be  done,  of  course,"  she  said,  thought- 
fully. "But  —  I  must  tell  you  this:  I  doubt  if  an 
older  woman  could  have  got  where  she  has.  There  is 
no  doubt  that  her  charm,  her  youth  and  beauty  have 
helped  her  greatly.  We  cannot " 

The  very  whites  of  his  eyes  turned  red  then.     He 


220    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

shouted  furiously  that  for  their  silly  work  and  their 
love  of  publicity,  they  were  trading  on  a  girl's  youth 
and  beauty;  that  if  anything  happened  to  her  he  would 
publish  the  truth  in  every  newspaper  in  the  country; 
that  they  would  at  once  recall  Sara  Lee  or  he  would 
placard  the  city  with  what  they  were  doing.  These 
were  only  a  few  of  the  things  he  threw  at  her. 

When  he  was  out  of  breath  he  jerked  the  picture  of 
the  little  house  of  mercy  out  of  his  pocket  and  flung  it 
into  her  lap. 

"  There ! "  he  said.  "  Do  you  know  where  that 
house  is?  It's  in  a  ruined  village.  She  hasn't  said 
that,  has  she?  Well,  look  at  the  masonry  there. 
That's  a  shell  hole  in  the  street.  That  soldier's  got  a 
gun.  Why?  Because  the  Germans  may  march  up 
that  street  any  day  on  their  way  to  Calais." 

Mrs.  Gregory  looked  at  the  picture.  Sara  Lee 
smiled  into  the  sun.  And  Rene,  ignorant  that  his  sin- 
gle rifle  was  to  oppose  the  march  of  the  German 
Army  to  Calais  —  Rene  smiled  also. 

Mrs.  Gregory  rose. 

"  I  shall  report  your  view  to  the  society,"  she  said 
coldly.  "  I  understand  how  you  feel,  but  I  fail  to  see 
the  reason  for  this  attack  on  me." 

"  I  guess  you  see  all  right !  "  he  flung  at  her.  "  She's 
my  future  wife.  If  you  hadn't  put  this  nonsense  into 
her  head  we'd  be  married  now  and  she'd  be  here  in 
God's  country  and  not  living  with  a  lot  of  foreigners 
who  don't  know  a  good  woman  when  they  see  one. 
I  want  her  back,  that's  all.  But  I  want  her  back  safe. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     221 

And  if  anything  happens  to  her  I'll  make  you  pay  — 
you  and  all  your  notoriety  hunters." 

He  went  out  then,  and  was  for  leaving  without  his 
hat  or  coat,  but  the  butler  caught  him  at  the  door. 
Out  in  the  spring  sunlight  he  walked  rapidly,  still 
seething,  remembering  other  bitter  things  he  had  meant 
to  say,  and  repeating  them  to  himself. 

But  he  had  said  enough. 

Mrs.  Gregory's  account  of  his  visit  she  reported  at 
a  meeting  specially  called.  The  narrative  lost  nothing 
in  the  repetition.  But  the  kindly  women  who  sat  in 
the  church  house  sewing  or  knitting  listened  to  what 
Harvey  had  said  and  looked  troubled.  They  liked 
Sara  Lee,  and  many  of  them  had  daughters  of  their 
own. 

The  photograph  was  passed  around.  Undoubtedly 
Sara  Lee  was  living  in  a  ruined  village.  Certainly 
ruined  villages  were  only  found  very  near  the  Front. 
.A.nd  Rene  unquestionably  held  a  gun.  Tales  of  Ger- 
man brutalities  to  women  had  come  and  were  coming 
constantly  to  their  ears.  Mabel  Andrews  had  written 
to  them  for  supplies,  and  she  had  added  to  the  chapter 
of  horrors. 

Briefly,  the  sense  of  the  meeting  was  that  Harvey 
had  been  brutal,  but  that  he  was  tght.  An  older 
woman  in  a  safe  place  they  might  continue  to  support, 
but  none  of  them  would  assume  the  responsibility  of 
the  crushing  out  of  a  young  girl's  life. 

To  be  quite  frank,  possibly  Harvey's  appeal  would 
bave  carried  less  weight  had  it  not  coincided  with  Sara 


222    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

Lee's  request  for  more  money.  Neither  one  alone 
would  have  brought  about  the  catastrophe,  but  alto- 
gether they  made  question  and  answer,  problem  and 
solution.  Money  was  scarce.  Demands  were  heavy. 
None  of  them  except  Mrs.  Gregory  had  more  than  just 
enough.  And  there  was  this  additional  situation  to 
face:  there  was  no  end  of  the  war  in  sight;  it  gave 
promise  now  of  going  on  indefinitely. 

Joffre  had  said,  "  I  nibble  them."  But  to  nibble  a 
hole  in  the  Germany  Army  might  take  years.  They 
had  sent  Sara  Lee  for  a  few  months.  How  about 
keeping  her  there  indefinitely? 

Oddly  enough,  it  was  Harvey's  sister  Belle  who 
made  the  only  protest  against  the  recall. 

"  Of  course,  I  want  her  back,"  she  said  slowly. 
"  You'd  understand  better  if  you  had  to  live  with  Har- 
vey. I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Gregory,  that  he  spoke  to  you 
as  he  did,  but  he's  nearly  crazy."  She  eyed  the  assem- 
bly with  her  tired  shrewd  eyes.  "  I'm  no  talker,"  she 
went  on,  "  but  Sara  Lee  has  done  a  big  thing.  We 
don't  realize,  I  guess,  how  big  it  is.  And  I  think  we'll 
just  about  kill  her  if  we  bring  her  home." 

"  Better  to  do  that  than  to  have  her  killed  over 
there,"  some  one  said. 

And  in  spite  of  Belle's  protest,  that  remained  the 
sense  of  the  meeting.  It  was  put  to  the  vote  and  de- 
cided to  recall  Sara  Lee.  She  could  bring  a  report  of 
conditions,  and  if  she  thought  it  wise  an  older  woman 
could  go  later,  to  a  safer  place. 

Belle  was  very  quiet  that  evening.     After  dinner  she 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     22? 

went  to  Harvey's  room  and  found  him  dressing  to  go 
out. 

"  I'm  going  with  a  crowd  to  the  theater,"  he  said. 
"  First  week  of  the  summer  stock  company,  you 
know." 

He  tied  his  tie  defiantly,  avoiding  Belle's  eyes  in  the 
mirror. 

"  Harvey,"  she  said,  "  they're  going  to  bring  Sara 
Lee  home." 

He  said  nothing,  but  his  hands  shook  somewhat. 

"  And  I  think,"  Belle  said,  "  that  you  will  be  sorry 
for  what  you  have  done  —  all  the  rest  of  your  life." 


XXI 

Y  the  time  Henri  was  well  enough  to  resume  his 
former  activities  it  was  almost  the  first  of  May. 
The  winter  quiet  was  over  with  a  vengeance,  and  the 
Allies  were  hammering  hard  with  their  first  tolerably 
full  supply  of  high-explosive  shells. 

Cheering  reports  came  daily  to  the  little  house  — 
of  rapidly  augmenting  armies,  of  big  guns  on  cater- 
pillar trucks  that  were  moving  slowly  up  to  the  Allied 
Front.  Great  Britain  had  at  last  learned  her  lesson, 
that  only  shells  of  immense  destructiveness  were  of 
any  avail  against  the  German  batteries.  She  was  mov- 
ing heaven  and  earth  to  get  them,  but  the  supply  was 
still  inadequate.  With  the  new  shells  experiments 
were  being  made  in  barrage  fire  —  costly  experiments 
now  and  then ;  but  the  Allies  were  apt  in  learning  the 
ugly  game  of  modern  war. 

Only  on  the  Belgian  Front  was  there  small  change. 
The  shattered  army  was  being  freshly  outfitted.  Eng- 
land was  sending  money  and  ammunition,  and  on  the 
sand  dunes  small  bodies  of  fresh  troops  drilled  and 
smiled  grimly  and  drilled  again.  But  there  were  not, 
as  in  England  and  in  France,  great  bodies  of  young 
men  to  draw  from.  Too  many  had  been  caught  be- 
yond the  German  wall  of  steel. 

Yet  a  wave  of  renewed  courage  had  come  with  the 

22$ 


226    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

sun  and  the  green  fields.  And  conditions  had  im- 
proved for  the  Belgians  in  other  ways.  They  were 
being  paid,  for  one  thing,  with  something  like  regu- 
larity. Food  was  better  and  more  plentiful.  One  day 
Henri  appeared  at  the  top  of  the  street  and  drove  down 
triumphantly  a  small  undipped  horse,  which  trundled 
behind  it  a  vertical  boiler  on  wheels  with  fire  box  and 
stovepipe. 

"  A  portable  kitchen !  "  he  explained.  "  See,  here 
for  soup  and  here  for  coffee.  And  more  are  coming." 

"  Very  soon,  Henri,  they  will  not  need  me,"  Sara 
Lee  said  wistfully. 

But  he  protested  almost  violently.  He  even  put  the 
question  to  the  horse,  and  blowing  in  his  ear  made  him 
shake  his  head  in  the  negative. 

She  was  needed,  indeed.  To  the  great  base  hospital 
at  La  Panne  went  more  and  more  wounded  men.  But 
to  the  little  house  of  mercy  came  the  small  odds  and 
ends  in  increasing  numbers.  Medical  men  were  scarce, 
and  badly  overworked.  There  was  talk,  for  a  time, 
of  sending  a  surgeon  to  the  little  house,  but  it  came 
to  nothing.  La  Panne  was  not  far  away,  and  all  the 
surgeons  they  could  get  there  were  not  too  many. 

So  the  little  house  went  on  much  as  before.  Henri 
had  moved  to  the  mill.  He  was  at  work  again,  and 
one  day,  in  the  King's  villa  and  quietly,  because  of 
many  reasons,  Henri,  a  very  white  and  erect  Henri, 
received  a  second  medal,  the  highest  for  courage  that 
could  be  given. 

He  did  not  tell  Sara  Lee. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    227 

But  though  he  and  the  men  who  served  under  him 
worked  hard,  they  could  not  always  perform  miracles. 
The  German  planes  still  outnumbered  the  Allied  ones. 
They  had  grown  more  daring  with  the  spring,  too,  and 
whatever  Henri  might  learn  of  ground  operations,  he 
could  not  foretell  those  of  the  air. 

On  a  moonlight  night  in  early  May  Sara  Lee,  setting 
out  her  dressings,  heard  a  man  running  up  the  street. 
Rene  challenged  him  sharply,  only  to  step  aside.  It 
was  Henri.  He  burst  in  on  Sara  Lee. 

"  To  the  cellar,  mademoiselle !  "  he  said. 

"  A  bombardment?  "  asked  Sara  Lee. 

"  From  the  air.  They  may  pass  over,  but  there  are 
twelve  taubes,  and  they  are  circling  overhead." 

The  first  bomb  dropped  then  in  the  street.  It  was 
white  moonlight  and  the  Germans  must  have  seen  that 
there  were  no  troops.  Probably  it  was  as  Henri  said 
later,  that  they  had  learned  of  the  little  house,  and 
since  it  brought  such  aid  and  comfort  as  might  be  it 
was  to  be  destroyed. 

The  house  of  the  mill  went  with  the  second  bomb. 
Then  followed  a  deafening  uproar  as  plane  after  plane 
dropped  its  shells  on  the  dead  town.  Marie  and  Sara 
Lee  were  in  the  cellar  by  that  time,  but  the  cellar  was 
scarcely  safer  than  the  floor  above.  From  a  bombard- 
ment by  shells  from  guns  miles  away  there  was  protec- 
tion. From  a  bomb  dropped  from  the  sky,  the  floors 
above  were  practically  useless. 

Only  Henri  and  Rene  remained  on  the  street  floor. 
Henri  was  extinguishing  lights.  In  the  passage  Rene 


228     THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

stood,  not  willing  to  take  refuge  until  Henri,  whom 
he  adored,  had  done  so.  For  a  moment  the  uproar 
ceased,  and  in  a  spirit  of  bravado  Rene  stepped  out  into 
the  moonlight  and  made  a  gesture  of  derision  into  the 
air. 

He  fell  there,  struck  by  a  piece  of  splintered  shell. 

"Come,  Rene!"  Henri  called.  "The  brave  are 
those  who  live  to  fight  again,  not " 

But  Rene's  figure  against  the  moonlight  was  gone 
Henri  ran  to  the  doorway  then  and  found  him  lying, 
his  head  on  the  little  step  where  he  had  been  wont  to 
sit  and  whittle  and  sing  his  Tipperaree.  He  was  dead. 
Henri  carried  him  in  and  laid  him  in  the  little  passage, 
very  reverently.  Then  he  went  below. 

"  Where  is  Rene?  "  Sara  Lee  asked  from  the  dark- 
ness. 

"  A  foolish  boy,"  said  Henri,  a  catch  in  his  throat. 
"  He  is,  I  think,  watching  these  fiends  of  the  air,  from 
some  shelter." 

"  There  is  no  shelter,"  shivered  the  girl. 

He  groped  for  her  hand  ir  the  darkness,  and  so  they 
stood,  hand  in  hand,  like  two  children,  waiting  for 
what  might  come. 

It  was  not  until  the  thing  was  over  that  he  told  her. 
He  had  gone  up  first  and  so  that  she  would  net  happen 
on  his  silent  figure  unwarned,  had  carried  Rene  to  the 
open  upper  floor,  where  he  lay,  singularly  peaceful, 
face  up  to  the  awful  beauty  of  the  night. 

"  Good  night,  little  brother,"  Henri  said  to  him,  and 
left  him  there  with  a  heavy  heart.  Never  again  would 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    229 

Rene  sit  and  whittle  on  the  doorstep  and  sing  his  tune- 
less Tipperaree.  Never  again  would  he  gaze  with 
boyish  adoring  eyes  at  Sara  Lee  as  she  moved  back  and 
forth  in  the  little  house. 

Henri  stared  up  at  the  sky.  The  moon  looked 
down,  cold  and  cruelly  bright,  on  the  vanishing  squad- 
ron of  death,  on  the  destroyed  town  and  on  the  boy's 
white  face.  Somewhere,  Henri  felt,  vanishing  like  the 
German  taubes,  but  to  peace  instead  of  war,  was  mov- 
ing Rene's  brave  and  smiling  spirit  —  a  boyish  angel, 
eager  and  dauntless,  and  still  looking  up. 

Henri  took  off  his  cap  and  crossed  himself. 

Another  sentry  took  Rene's  place  the  next  day,  but 
the  little  house  had  lost  something  it  could  not  regain. 
And  a  greater  loss  was  to  come. 

Jean  brought  out  the  mail  that  day.  For  Sara  Lee, 
moving  about  silent  and  red-eyed,  there  was  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Travers.  He  inclosed  a  hundred  pounds 
and  a  clipping  from  a  London  newspaper  entitled  The 
Little  House  of  Mercy. 

"  Evidently,"  he  wrote,  "  you  were  right  and  we 
were  wrong.  One-half  of  the  inclosed  check  is  from 
my  wife,  who  takes  this  method  of  showing  her  affec- 
tionate gratitude.  The  balance  is  from  myself. 
Once,  some  months  ago,  I  said  to  you  that  almost  you 
restored  my  faith  in  human  nature.  To-day  I  may  say 
that,  in  these  hours  of  sorrow  for  us  all,  what  you 
have  done  and  are  doing  has  brought  into  my  gray  day 
a  breath  of  hope." 

There  was  another  clipping,  but  no  comment.     It 


230    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

recorded  the  death  of  a  Reginald  Alexander  T  ravers, 
aged  thirty. 

It  was  then  that  Sara  Lee,  who  was  by  way  of  think- 
ing for  herself  those  days,  and  of  thinking  clearly, 
recognized  the  strange  new  self-abnegation  of  the  Eng- 
lish—  their  attitude  not  so  much  of  suppressing  their 
private  griefs  as  of  refusing  to  obtrude  them.  A 
strongly  individualistic  people,  they  were  already  com- 
mencing to  think  nationally.  Grief  was  a  private  mat- 
ter, to  be  borne  privately.  To  the  world  they  must 
present  an  unbroken  front,  an  unshaken  and  unshak- 
able faith.  A  new  attitude,  and  a  strange  one,  f 01^ 
grumbling,  crochety,  gouty-souled  England. 

A  people  who  had  for  centuries  insisted  not  only  on 
its  rights  but  on  its  privileges  was  now  giving  as  freely 
as  ever  it  had  demanded.  It  was  as  though,  having 
hoarded  all  those  years,  it  had  but  been  hoarding 
against  the  day  of  payment.  As  it  had  received  it  gave 
—  in  money,  in  effort,  in  life.  And  without  pretext. 

So  the  Traverses,  having  given-  up  all  that  had  made 
life  for  them,  sent  a  clipping  only,  and  no  comment. 
Sara  Lee,  through  a  mist  of  tears,  saw  them  alone  in 
their  drawing-room,  having  tea  as  usual,  and  valiantly 
speaking  of  small  things,  and  bravely  facing  the  future, 
but  never,  in  the  bitterest  moments,  making  complaint 
or  protest. 

Would  America,  she  wondered,  if  her  hour  came,  be 
so  brave?  Harvey  had  a  phrase  for  such  things.  It 
was  "  stand  the  gaff."  Would  America  stand  the  gaff 
so  v/ell?  Courage  was  America's  watchword,  but  a 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     231 

courage  of  the  body  rather  than  of  the  soul  —  physical 
courage,  not  moral.  What  would  happen  if  America 
entered  the  struggle  and  the  papers  were  filled,  as  were 
the  British  and  the  French,  with  long  casualty  lists, 
each  name  a  knife  thrust  somewhere? 

She  wondered. 

.  And  then,  before  long,  it  was  Sara  Lee's  turn  to 
stand  the  gaff.  There  was  another  letter,  a  curiously 
incoherent  one  from  Harvey's  sister.  She  referred  to 
something  that  the  society  had  done,  and  hoped  that 
Sara  Lee  would  take  it  in  kindness,  as  it  was  meant. 
Harvey  was  well  and  much  happier.  She  was  to  try 
to  understand  Harvey's  part.  He  had  been  almost 
desperate.  Evidently  the  letter  had  preceded  one  that 
should  have  arrived  at  the  same  time.  Sara  Lee  was 
sadly  puzzled.  She  went  to  Henri  with  it,  but  he 
<:ould  make  nothing  out  of  it.  There  was  nothing  to- 
do  but  to  wait. 

The  next  night  Henri  was  to  go  through  the  lines 
again.  Since  his  wounding  he  had  been  working  on 
the  Allied  side,  and  fewer  lights  there  were  in  his  dis- 
trict that  flashed  the  treacherous  message  across  the 
flood,  between  night  and  morning.  But  now  it  was 
imperative  that  he  go  through  the  German  lines  again. 
It  was  feared  that  with  grappling  hooks  the  enemy  was 
slowly  and  cautiously  withdrawing  the  barbed  wire 
from  the  inundated  fields ;  and  that  could  mean  but  one 
thing. 

On  the  night  he  was  to  go  Henri  called  Sara  Lee 


232    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

from  the  crowded  salle  a  manger  and  drawing  her  into 
the  room  across  closed  the  door. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said  gravely,  "  once  before, 
long  ago,  you  permitted  me  to  kiss  you.  Will  you 
do  that  for  me  again  ?  ' 

She  kissed  him  at  once  gravely.  Once  she  woulc 
have  flushed.  She  did  not  now.  For  there  was  a 
change  in  Sara  Lee  as  well  as  in  her  outlook.  She  had 
been  seeing  for  months  the  shortness  of  life,  the  brief 
tenure  men  held  on  it,  the  value  of  such  happiness  as 
might  be  for  the  hours  that  remained.  She  was  a 
woman  now,  for  all  her  slim  young  body  and  her  charm 
of  youth.  Values  had  changed.  To  love,  and  to 
show  that  love,  to  cheer,  to  comfort  and  help  —  that 
was  necessary,  because  soon  the  chance  might  be  gone, 
and  there  would  be  long  aching  years  of  regret. 

So  she  kissed  him  gravely  and  looked  up  into  his 
syes,  her  own  full  of  tears. 

"  God  bless  and  keep  you,  dear  Henri,"  she  said. 

Then  she  went  back  to  her  work. 


XXII 

JV/TUCH  of  Sara  Lee's  life  at  home  had  faded.  She 
*  •••  seemed  to  be  two  people.  One  was  the  girl  who 
had  knitted  the  afghan  for  Anna,  and  had  hidden  it 
away  from  Uncle  James1  kind  but  curious  eyes.  And 
one  was  this  present  Sara  Lee,  living  on  the  edge  of 
eternity,  and  seeing  men  die  or  suffer  horribly,  not  to 
gain  anything  —  except  perhaps  some  honorable  ad- 
vancement for  their  souls  —  but  that  there  might  be 
preserved,  at  any  cost,  the  right  of  honest  folk  to  labof 
in  their  fields,  to  love,  to  pray,  and  at  last  to  sleep  in 
the  peace  of  God. 

She  had  lost  the  past  and  she  dared  not  look  intc. 
the  future.  So  she  was  living  each  day  as  it  came, 
with  its  labor,  its  love,  its  prayers  and  at  last  its  sleep. 
Even  Harvey  seemed  remote  and  stern  and  bitter. 
She  reread  his  letters  often,  but  they  were  forced. 
And  after  a  time  she  realized  another  quality  in  them. 
They  were  self-centered.  It  was  his  anxiety,  his  lone- 
liness, his  humiliation.  Sara  Lee's  eyes  were  looking 
out,  those  days,  over  a  suffering  world.  Harvey's  eyes 
were  turned  in  on  himself. 

She  realized  this,  but  she  never  formulated  it,  even 
to  herself.  What  she  did  acknowledge  was  a  growing 
fear  of  the  reunion  which  must  come  sometime  —  that 

233 


234    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

he  was  cherishing  still  further  bitterness  against  that 
day,  that  he  would  say  things  that  he  would  regret 
later.  Sometimes  the  thought  of  that  day  came  to  her 
when  she  was  doing  a  dressing,  and  her  hands  would 
tremble. 

Henri  had  not  returned  when,  the  second  day  after 
Rene's  death,  the  letter  came  which  recalled  her.  She 
opened  it  eagerly.  Though  from  Harvey  there  usually 
came  at  the  best  veiled  reproach,  the  society  had  al- 
ways sent  its  enthusiastic  approval. 

She  read  it  twice  before  she  understood,  and  it  was 
only  when  she  read  Belle's  letter  again  that  she  began 
to  comprehend.  She  was  recalled;  and  the  recall  was 
Harvey's  work. 

She  was  very  close  to  hating  him  that  day.  He 
had  never  understood.  She  would  go  back  to  him,  as 
she  had  promised;  but  always,  all  the  rest  of  their 
lives,  there  would  be  this  barrier  between  them.  To 
the  barrier  of  his  bitterness  would  be  added  her  own 
resentment.  She  could  never  even  talk  to  him  of  her 
work,  of  those  great  days  when  in  her  small  way  she 
had  felt  herself  a  part  of  the  machinery  of  mercy  of 
the  war. 

Harvey  had  lost  something  out  of  Sara  Lee's  love 
for  him.  He  had  done  it  himself,  madly,  despairingly. 
She  still  loved  him,  she  felt.  Nothing  could  change 
that  or  her  promise  to  him.  But  with  that  love  there 
was  something  now  of  fear.  And  she  felt,  too,  that 
after  all  the  years  she  had  known  him  she  had  not 
known  him  at  all.  The  Harvey  she  had  known  was  a 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     235 

tender  and  considerate  man,  soft-spoken,  slow  to 
wrath,  always  gentle.  But  the  Harvey  of  his  letters 
and  of  the  recall  was  a  stranger. 

It  was  the  result  of  her  upbringing,  probably,  that 
she  had  no  thought  of  revolt.  Her  tie  to  Harvey  was 
a  real  tie.  By  her  promise  to  him  her  life  was  no 
longer  hers  to  order.  It  belonged  to  some  one  else,  to- 
be  ordered  for  her.  But,  though  she  accepted,  she  was 
too  clear  a  thinker  not  to  resent. 

When  Henri  returned,  toward  dawn  of  the  follow- 
ing night,  he  did  not  come  alone.  Sara  Lee,  rising; 
early,  found  two  men  in  her  kitchen  —  one  of  them 
Henri,  who  was  making  coffee,  and  a  soldier  in  a  gray- 
green  uniform,  with  a  bad  bruise  over  one  eye  and  a 
sulky  face.  His  hands  were  tied,  but  otherwise  he  sat 
at  ease,  and  Henri,  having  made  the  coffee,  held  a  cup 
to  his  lips. 

"  It  is  good  for  the  spirits,  man,"  he  said  in  German. 
"  Drink  it." 

The  German  took  it,  first  gingerly,  then  eagerly. 
Henri  was  in  high  good  humor. 

"  See,  I  have  brought  you  a  gift!  "  he  exclaimed  on 
seeing  Sara  Lee.  "What  shall  we  do  with  him? 
Send  him  to  America?  To  show  the  appearance  of 
the  madmen  of  Europe?  " 

The  prisoner  was  only  a  boy,  such  a  boy  as  Henri 
himself ;  but  a  peasant,  and  muscular.  Beside  his  bulk 
Henri  looked  slim  as  a  reed.  Henri  eyed  him  with  a 
certain  tolerant  humor. 

"  He  is  young,  and  a  Bavarian,"  he  said.     "  Other- 


236     THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

wise  I  should  have  killed  him,  for  he  fought  hard. 
He  has  but  just  been  called." 

There  was  another  conference  in  the  little  house  that 
morning,  but  Henri's  prisoner  could  tell  little.  He 
had  heard  nothing  of  an  advance.  Further  along  the 
line  it  was  said  that  there  was  much  fighting.  He  sat 
there,  pale  and  bewildered  and  very  civil,  and  in  the 
end  his  frightened  politeness  brought  about  a  change 
in  the  attitude  of  the  men  who  questioned  him.  Hate 
all  Germans  as  they  must,  who  had  suffered  so  grossly, 
this  boy  was  not  of  those  who  had  outraged  them. 

They  sent  him  on  at  last,  and  Sara  Lee  was  free  to 
tell  Henri  her  news.  But  she  had  grown  very  wise 
as  to  Henri's  moods,  and  she  hesitated.  A  certain  dis- 
satisfaction had  been  growing  in  the  boy  for  some 
time,  a  sense  of  hopelessness.  Further  along  the 
spring  had  brought  renewed  activity  to  the  Allied 
armies.  Great  movements  were  taking  place. 

But  his  own  men  stood  in  their  trenches,  or  what 
passed  for  trenches,  or  lay  on  their  hours  of  relief  in 
such  wretched  quarters  as  could  be  found,  still  with  no 
prospect  of  action.  No  great  guns,  drawn  by  heavy 
tractors,  came  down  the  roads  toward  the  trenches  by 
the  sea.  Steady  bombarding,  incessant  sniping  and  no 
movement  on  either  side  —  that  was  the  Belgian  Front 
during  the  first  year  of  the  war.  Inaction,  with  that 
eating  anxiety  as  to  what  was  going  on  in  the  occupied 
territory,  was  the  portion  of  the  heroic  small  army  that 
stretched  from  Nieuport  to  Dixmude. 

And  Henri's  nerves  were  not  good.     He  was  un- 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    237 

happy  —  that  always  —  and  he  was  not  yet  quite  re- 
covered from  his  wounds.  There  was  on  his  mind, 
too,  a  certain  gun  which  moved  on  a  railway  tiack, 
back  and  forth,  behind  the  German  lines,  doing  the 
work  of  many.  He  had  tried  to  get  to  that  gun,  and 
failed.  And  he  hated  failure. 

Certainly  in  this  story  of  Sara  Lee  and  of  Henri, 
whose  other  name  must  not  be  known,  allowance  must 
be  made  for  all  those  things.  Yet  —  perhaps  no  al- 
lowance is  enough. 

Sara  Lee  told  him  that  evening  of  her  recall,  told 
him  when  the  shuffling  of  many  feet  in  the  street  told 
of  the  first  weary  men  from  the  trenches  coming  up 
the  road. 

He  heard  her  in  a  dazed  silence.     Then : 

"  But  you  will  not  go  ?  "  he  said.  "  It  is  impossi- 
ble! You  —  you  are  needed,  mademoiselle." 

"  What  can  I  do,  Henri  ?  They  have  recalled  me. 
My  money  will  not  come  now." 

"  Perhaps  we  can  arrange  that.  It  does  not  cost  so 
much.  I  have  friends  —  and  think,  mademoiselle, 
how  many  know  now  of  what  you  are  doing,  and  love 
you  for  it.  Some  of  them  would  contribute,  surely." 

He  was  desperately  revolving  expedients  in  his  mind. 
He  could  himself  do  no  more  than  he  had  done. 
He,  or  rather  Jean  and  he  together,  had  been  bearing 
a  full  half  of  the  expense  of  the  little  house  since  the 
beginning.  But  he  dared  not  tell  her  that.  And 
though  he  spoke  hopefully,  he  knew  well  that  he  could 


238    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

raise  nothing  from  the  Belgians  he  knew  best.  Henri 
came  of  a  class  that  held  its  fortunes  in  land,  and  that 
land  was  now  in  German  hands. 

"  We  will  arrange  it  somehow,"  he  said  with  forced 
cheerfulness.  "No  beautiful  thing  —  and  this  is 
surely  beautiful — must  die  because  of  money." 

It  was  then  that  Sara  Lee  took  the  plunge. 

"  It  is  not  only  money,  Henri." 

"  He  has  sent  for  you !  " 

Harvey  was  always  "  he  "  to  Henri. 

"  Not  exactly.  But  I  think  he  went  to  some  one 
and  said  I  should  not  be  here  alone.  You  "can  under- 
stand how  he  feels.  We  were  going  to  be  married 
very  soon,  and  then  I  decided  to  come.  It  made  an 
awful  upset." 

Henri  stood  with  folded  arms  and  listened.  At  first 
he  said  nothing.  When  he  spoke  it  was  in  a  voice  of 
ominous  calm : 

"  So  for  a  stupid  convention  he  would  destroy  this 
beautiful  thing  you  have  made!  Does  he  know  your 
work  ?  Does  he  know  what  you  are  to  the  men  here  ? 
Have  you  ever  told  him?  " 

"  I  have,  of  course,  but " 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  back  ?  " 

"  No,  Henri.     Not  yet.     I 


That  is  enough.    You  are  needed.    You  are  willing 
to  stay.     I  shall  attend  to  the  money.     It  is  arranged." 
"  You  don't  understand,"  said  Sara  Lee  desperately. 
"  I  am  engaged  to  him.     I  can't  wreck  his  life,  can  I  ?  " 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    239 

"  Would  it  wreck  your  life?  "  he  demanded.  "  Tell 
me  that  and  I  shall  know  how  to  reason  with  you." 

But  she  only  looked  at  him  helplessly. 

Heavy  tramping  in  the  passage  told  of  the  arrival  of 
the  first  men.  They  did  not  talk  and  laugh  as  usual. 
As  well  as  they  could  they  came  quietly.  For  Rene 
had  been  a  good  friend  to  many  of  them,  and  had  ad- 
mitted on  slack  nights  many  a  weary  man  who  had  no 
ticket.  Much  as  the  neighbors  had  entered  the  house 
back  home  after  Uncle  James  had  gone  away,  came 
these  bearded  men  that  night.  And  Sara  Lee,  hearing 
their  muffled  voices,  brushed  a  hand  over  her  eyes  and 
tried  to  smile. 

"  We  can  talk  about  it  later,"  she  said.  "  We 
mustn't  quarrel.  I  owe  so  much  to  you,  Henri." 

Suddenly  Henri  caught  her  by  the  arm  and  turned 
her  about  so  that  she  faced  the  lamp. 

"Do  you  love  him?"  he  demanded.  "Sara  Lee, 
look  at  me!  "  Only  he  pronounced  it  Saralie.  "  He 
has  done  a  very  cruel  thing.  Do  you  still  love  him  ?  " 

Sara  Lee  shut  her  eyes. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  think  I  do.  He  is  very  unhappy, 
and  it  is  my  fault." 

"Your  fault!" 

"  I  must  go,  Henri.     The  men  are  waiting." 

But  he  still  held  her  arm. 

"  Does  he  love  you  as  I  love  you?  "  he  demanded. 
"Would  he  die  for  you?" 

"  That's  rather  silly,  isn't  it?  Men  don't  die  for  the 
people  they  love." 


24o    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  I  would  die  for  you,  Saralie." 

She  eyed  him  rather  helplessly. 

"  I  don't  think  you  mean  that."  Bad  strategy  that, 
for  he  drew  her  to  him.  His  arms  were  like  steel,  and 
it  was  a  rebellious  and  very  rigid  Sara  Lee  who  found 
she  could  not  free  herself. 

"  I  would  die  for  you,  Saralie !  "  he  repeated  fiercely. 
"  That  would  be  easier,  far,  than  living  without  you. 
There  is  nothing  that  matters  but  you.  Listen  —  I 
would  put  everything  I  have  —  my  honor,  my  life,  my 
hope  of  eternity  —  on  one  side  of  the  scale  and  you  on 
the  other.  And  I  would  choose  you.  Is  that  love  ?  " 
He  freed  her. 

"  It's  insanity,"  said  Sara  Lee  angrily.  "  You  don't 
mean  it.  And  I  don't  want  that  kind  of  love,  if  that 
is  what  you  call  it." 

"  And  you  will  go  back  to  that  man  who  loves  him- 
self better  than  he  loves  you?  " 

"  That's  not  true !  "  she  flashed  at  him.  "  He  is 
sending  for  me,  not  to  get  me  back  to  him,  but  to  get 
me  back  to  safety." 

"  What  sort  of  safety?  "  Henri  demanded  in  an  om- 
inous tone.  "  Is  he  afraid  of  me  ?  " 

"'  He  doesn't  know  anything  about  you." 

"  You  have  never  told  him  ?  Why  ?  "  His  eyes 
narrowed. 

"  He  wouldn't  have  understood,  Henri." 

"  You  are  going  back  to  him,"  he  said  slowly ;  "  and 
you  will  always  keep  these  days  of  ours  buried  in  your 
heart.  Is  that  it?"  His  eyes  softened  "I  am  to 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    241 

be  a  memory !  Do  you  know  what  I  think  ?  I  think 
you  care  for  me  more  than  you  know.  We  have  lived 
a  lifetime  together  in  these  months.  You  know  me 
better  than  you  know  him,  already.  We  have  faced 
death  together.  That  is  a  strong  tie.  And  I  have 
held  you  in  my  arms.  Do  you  think  you  can  forget 
that?" 

"  I  shall  never  want  to  forget  you." 

"  I  shall  not  let  you  forget  me.  You  may  go  —  I 
cannot  prevent  that  perhaps.  But  wherever  I  am; 
Saralie,  I  shall  stand  between  that  lover  of  yours  and 
you.  And  sometime  I  shall  come  from  this  other  side 
of  the  world,  and  I  shall  find  you,  and  you  will  come 
back  with  me.  Back  to  this  country  —  our  country." 

They  were  boyish  words,  but  back  of  them  was  the 
iron  determination  of  a  man.  His  eyes  seemed  sunken 
in  his  head.  His  face  was  white.  But  there  was  al- 
most a  prophetic  ring  in  his  voice. 

Sara  Lee  went  out  and  left  him  there,  went  out 
rather  terrified  and  bewildered,  and  refusing  absolutely 
to  look  into  her  own  heart. 


XXIII 

Y  &TOE  in  May  she  started  for  home.  It  had  not 
'  -*  been  necessary  to  close  the  little  house.  An  Eng- 
jifl&woman  of  mature  years  and  considerable  wealth, 
hearing  from  Mr.  Travers  of  Sara  Lee's  recall,  went 
out  a  day  or  two  before  she  left  and  took  charge.  She 
was  a  kindly  woman,  in  deep  mourning;  and  some  of 
the  ache  left  Sara  Lee's  heart  when  she  had  talked  with 
her  successor 

Perhaps,  too,  Mrs.  Cameron  understood  some  of  the 
things  that  had  puzzled  her  before.  She  had  been  a 
trifle  skeptical  perhaps  about  Sara  Lee  before  she  saw 
her.  A  young  girl  alone  among  an  army  of  men) 
She  was  a  good  woman  herself,  and  not  given  to  harsh 
judgments,  but  the  thing  had  seemed  odd.  But  Sara 
Lee  in  her  little  house,  as  virginal,  as  without  sex- 
consciousness  as  a  child,  Sara  Lee  with  her  shabby 
clothes  and  her  stained  hands  and  her  honest  eyes  — 
this  was  not  only  a  good  girl,  this  was  a  brave  and  high- 
spirited  and  idealistic  woman. 

And  after  an  evening  in  the  house  of  mercy,  with 
the  soldiers  openly  adoring  and  entirely  respectful, 
Mrs.  Cameron  put  her  arms  round  Sara  Lee  and  kissed 
her. 

"  You  must  let  me  thank  you,"  she  said.  "  You 

have  made  me  feel  what  I  have  not  felt  since '* 

243 


244    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

She  stopped.  Her  mourning  was  only  a  month  old. 
"  I  see  to-night  that,  after  all,  many  things  may  be 
gone,  but  that  while  service  remains  there  is  something 
worth  while  in  life." 

,The  next  day  she  asked  Sara  Lee  to  stay  with  her, 
at  least  through  the  summer.  Sara  Lee  hesitated,  but 
at  last  she  agreed  to  cable.  As  Henri  had  disappeared 
with  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Cameron  it  was  that  lady's 
chauffeur  who  took  the  message  to  Dunkirk  and  sent  it 
off. 

She  had  sent  the  cable  to  Harvey.  It  was  no  longer 
a  matter  of  the  Ladies'  Aid.  It  was  between  Harvey 
and  herself. 

The  reply  came  on  the  second  day.  It  was  curt  and 
Jecisive. 

"  Now  or  never,"  was  the  message  Harvey  sent  out 
of  his  black  despair,  across  the  Atlantic  to  the  little 
house  so  close  under  the  guns  of  Belgium. 

Henri  was  half  mad  those  last  days.  Jean  tried  to 
counsel  him,  but  he  was  irritable,  almost  savage.  And 
Jean  understood.  The  girl  had  grown  deep  into  his 
own  heart.  Like  Henri,  he  believed  that  she  was 
going  back  to  unhappiness;  he  even  said  so  to  her  in 
the  car,  on  that  last  sad  day  when  Sara  Lee,  having 
visited  Rene's  grave  and  prayed  in  the  ruined  church, 
said  good-by  to  the  little  house,  and  went  away,  tear- 
less at  the  last,  because  she  was  too  sad  for  tears. 

It  was  not  for  some  time  that  Jean  spoke  what  was 
in  his  mind,  and  when  he  had  done  so  she  turned  to 
him  gravely : 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     245 

"  You  are  wrong,  Jean.  He  is  the  kindest  of  men. 
Once  I  am  back,  and  safe,  he  will  be  very  different. 
I'm  afraid  I've  given  you  a'  wrong  impression  of 
him." 

"  You  think  then,  mademoiselle,  that  he  will  forget 
all  these  months  —  he  will  never  be  unhappy  over 
ihem?" 

"  Why  should  he  ? "  said  Sara  Lee  proudly. 
"  When  I  tell  him  everything  he  will  understand. 
And  he  will  be  very  proud  that  I  have  done  my  share." 

But  Jean's  one  eye  was  dubious. 

At  the  wharf  in  Dunkirk  they  found  Henri,  a  pale 
but  composed  Henri.  Jean's  brows  contracted.  He 
had  thought  that  the  boy  would  follow  his  advice  and 
stay  away.  But  Henri  was  there. 

It  was  as  well,  perhaps,  for  Sara  Lee  had  brought 
him  a  letter,  one  of  those  missives  from  the  trenches 
which  had  been  so  often  left  at  the  little  house. 

Henri  thrust  it  into  his  pocket  without  reading  it. 

"  Everything  is  prepared,"  he  said.  "  It  is  the  Brit- 
ish Admiralty  boat,  and  one  of  the  officers  has  offered 
his  cabin.  You  will  be  quite  comfortable." 

He  appeared  entirely  calm.  He  saw  to  carrying 
Sara  Lee's  small  bag  on  board;  he  chatted  with  the 
officers;  he  even  wandered  over  to  a  hospital  ship 
moored  near  by  and  exchanged  civilities  with  a 
wounded  man  in  a  chair  on  the  deck.  Perhaps  he 
swaggered  a  bit  too  much,  for  Jean  watched  him  with 
some  anxiety.  He  saw  that  the  boy  was  taking  it 
hard.  His  eyes  were  very  sunken  now,  and  he  moved 


246    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

his  right  arm  stiffly,  as  though  the  old  wound  troubled 
him. 

Jean  did  not  like  leave-takings.  Particularly  he  did 
not  like  taking  leave  of  Sara  Lee.  Some  time  before 
the  boat  sailed  he  kissed  her  hand,  and  then  patted  it 
and  went  away  in  the  car  without  looking  back. 

The  boat  was  preparing  to  get  under  way.  Henri 
was  standing  by  her  very  quietly.  He  had  not  slep. 
the  night  before,  but  then  there  were  many  nights  when 
Henri  did  not  sleep.  He  had  wandered  about,  smok- 
ing incessantly,  trying  to  picture  the  black  future. 

He  could  see  no  hope  anywhere.  America  was  far 
away,  and  peaceful.  Very  soon  the  tranquillity  of  it 
all  would  make  the  last  months  seem  dreamlike  and  un- 
real. She  would  forget  Belgium,  forget  him.  Or  she- 
would  remember  him  as  a  soldier  who  had  once  loved 
her.  Once  loved  her,  because  she  had  never  seemed 
to  realize  the  lasting  quality  of  his  love.  She  had  al- 
ways felt  that  he  would  forget  her.  If  he  could  only 
make  her  believe  that  he  would  not,  it  would  not  be  so 
hopeless. 

He  had  written  a  bit  of  a  love  letter  on  the  little 
table  at  Dunkirk  that  morning,  written  it  with  the  hope 
that  the  sight  of  the  written  words  might  carry  convic- 
tion where  all  his  protests  had  failed. 

"  I  shall  love  you  all  the  years  of  my  life,"  he  wrote. 

'  At  any  time,  in  any  place,  you  may  come  to  me  and 

know  that  I  am  waiting.     Great  love  like  this  comes 

only  once  to  any  man,  and  once  come  to  him  it  never 

goes  away.     At  any  time  in  the  years  to  come  you  mav 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     247 

know  with  certainty  that  you  are  still  to  me  what  you 
are  now,  the  love  of  my  life. 

"  Sometimes  I  think,  dearest  —  I  may  call  you  that 
once,  now  that  you  have  left  me  —  that  far  away  you 
will  hear  this  call  of  mine  and  come  back  to  me.  Per- 
haps you  will  never  come.  Perhaps  I  shall  not  live. 
I  feel  to-day  that  I  do  not  care  greatly  to  live. 

"  If  that  is  to  be,  then  think  of  me  somewhere,  per- 
haps with  Rene  by  my  side,  since  he,  too,  loved  you 
And  I  shall  still  be  calling  you,  and  waiting.  Perhaps 
even  beyond  the  stars  they  have  need  of  a  little  house 
of  mercy;  and,  God  knows,  wherever  I  am  I  shall  have 
need  of  you." 

He  had  the  letter  in  the  pocket  of  his  tunic,  and  at 
last  the  moment  came  when  the  boat  must  leave. 
Suddenly  Henri  knew  that  he  could  not  allow  her  to 
cross  to  England  alone.  The  last  few  days  had 
brought  many  stories  of  submarine  attacks.  Here,  so 
far  north,  the  Germans  were  particularly  active.  They 
had  for  a  long  time  lurked  in  waiting  for  this  British 
Admiralty  boat,  with  its  valuable  cargo,  its  officers  and 
the  government  officials  who  used  it. 

"  Good-by,  Henri,"  said  Sara  Lee.  "  I  —  of  course 
it  is  no  use  to  try  to  tell  you " 

"  I  am  going  across  with  you." 

"  But " 

"  I  allowed  you  to  come  over  alone.  I  shiver  when 
I  think  of  it.  I  shall  take  you  back  myself." 

"  Is  it  very  dangerous?  " 

"  Probably  not.     But  can  you  think  of  me  standing 


248    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

safe  on  that  quay  and  letting  you  go  into  danger 
alone?" 

"  I  am  not  afraid." 

"  I  know  that.  I  have  never  seen  you  afraid.  But 
if  you  wish  to  see  a  coward,  look  at  me.  I  am  a  cow- 
ard for  you." 

He  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket.  It  occurred  to  him 
to  give  her  the  letter  now  so  that  if  anything  happened 
she  would  at  least  have  had  it.  He  wanted  no  mistake 
about  that  appointment  beyond  the  stars.  But  the 
great  world  of  eternity  was  very  large,  and  they  must 
have  a  definite  understanding  about  that  meeting  at 
the  little  house  of  mercy  Over  There. 

Perhaps  he  had  a  little  fever  that  day.  He  was  al- 
ternately flushed  and  pale;  and  certainly  he  was  not 
quite  rational.  His  hand  shook  as  he  brought  out  her 
letter  —  and  with  it  the  other  letter,  from  the  Front. 

"  Have  you  the  time  to  come  with  me?  "  Sara  Lee 
asked  doubtfully.  "  I  want  you  to  come,  of  course, 
but  if  your  work  will  suffer " 

He  held  out  his  letter  to  her. 

"  I  shall  go  away,"  he  said,  "  while  you  read  it. 
And  perhaps  you  will  not  destroy  it,  because  —  I 
should  like  to  feel  that  you  have  it  always." 

He  went  away  at  once,  saluting  as  he  passed  other 
officers,  who  gravely  saluted  him.  On  the  deck  of  the 
hospital  ship  the  invalid  touched  his  cap.  Word  was 
going  about,  in  the  stealthy  manner  of  such  things,  that 
Henri,  whose  family  name  we  may  not  know,  was  a 
brave  man  and  doing  brave  things. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    249 

The  steamer  had  not  yet  cast  off.  As  usual,  it  was 
to  take  a  flying  start  from  the  harbor,  for  it  was  just 
outside  the  harbor  that  the  wolves  of  the  sea  lay  in 
wait.  Henri,  alone  at  last,  opened  his  letter,  and 
stood  staring  at  it.  There  was  again  movement  behind 
the  German  line,  a  matter  to  be  looked  into,  as  only 
he  could  do  it.  Probably  nothing,  as  before;  but  who 
could  say? 

Henri  looked  along  the  shore  to  where  but  a  few 
miles  away  lay  the  ragged  remnant  of  his  country. 
And  he  looked  forward  to  where  Sara  Lee,  his  letter 
in  her  hand,  was  staring  blindly  at  nothing.  Then  he 
looked  out  toward  the  sea,  where  lay  who  knew  what 
dangers  of  death  and  suffering. 

After  that  first  moment  of  indecision  he  never  hesi- 
tated. He  stood  on  the  deck  and  watched,  rather 
frozen  and  rigid,  and  with  a  mind  that  had  ceased 
working,  while  the  steamer  warped  out  from  the  quay. 
If  in  his  subconsciousness  there  was  any  thought  it 
was  doubtless  that  he  had  done  his  best  for  a  long  time, 
and  that  he  had  earned  the  right  to  protect  for  a  few 
hours  the  girl  he  loved.  That,  too,  there  had  been 
activity  along  the  German-Belgian  line  before,  without 
result. 

Perhaps  subconsciously  those  things  were  there. 
He  himself  was  conscious  of  no  thought,  of  only  a 
dogged  determination  to  get  Sara  Lee  across  the  chan- 
nel safely.  He  put  everything  else  behind  him.  He 
r.ounted  no  cost. 

%The  little  admiralty  boat  sped  on.     In  the  bow,  on 


250    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

the  bridge,  and  at  different  stations  lookouts  kept 
watch.  The  lifeboats  were  hung  overboard,  ready  to 
lower  instantly.  On  the  horizon  a  British  destroyer 
steamed  leisurely.  Henri  stood  for  a  long  time  on  the 
deck.  The  land  fell  away  quickly.  From  a  clear 
silhouette  of  the  town  against  the  sky  —  the  dunes,  the 
spire  of  the  cathedral,  the  roof  of  the  mairie  —  it  be- 
came vague,  shadowy  —  the. height  of  a  hand  —  a  line 
—  nothing. 

Henri  roused  himself.  He  was  very  thirsty,  and 
the  wound  in  his  arm  ached.  When  he  raised  his  hand 
to  salute  the  movement  was  painful. 

It  was  a  very  grave  Sara  Lee  he  found  in  the  officer's 
cabin  when  he  went  inside  later  on.  She  was  sitting 
on  the  long  seat  below  the  open  port,  her  hat  slightly 
askew  and  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  Her  bag  was 
beside  her,  and  there  was  in  her  eyes  a  perplexity  Henri 
was  too  wretched  to  notice. 

For  the  first  time  Sara  Lee  was  realizing  the  full 
value  of  the  thing  she  was  throwing  away.  She  had 
persistently  discounted  it  until  now.  She  had  been 
grateful  for  it.  She  had  felt  unworthy  of  it.  But 
now,  on  the  edge  of  leaving  it,  she  felt  that  something 
infinitely  precious  and  very  beautiful  was  going  out 
of  her  life.  She  had  already  a  sense  of  loss. 

For  the  first  time,  too,  she  was  allowing  herself  to 
think  of  certain  contingencies  that  were  now  forever 
impossible.  For  instance,  suppose  she  had  stayed 
with  Mrs.  Cameron?  Suppose  she  had  broken  her 
promise  to  Harvey  and  remained  at  the  little  house? 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     251 

Suppose  she  had  done  as  Henri  had  so  wildly  urged 
her,  and  had  broken  entirely  with  Harvey?  Would 
she  have  married  Henri  ? 

There  was  a  certain  element  of  caution  in  the  girl. 
It  made  the  chances  she  had  taken  rather  more  cour- 
ageous, indeed,  because  she  had  always  counted  the 
cost.  But  marriage  was  not  a  matter  for  taking 
chances.  One  should  know  not  only  the  man,  but  his 
setting,  though  she  would  not  have  thought  of  it  in  that 
way.  Not  only  the  man,  but  the  things  that  made  up 
his  life  —  his  people,  his  home. 

And  Henri  was  to  her  still  a  figure,  not  so  much  now 
of  mystery  as  of  detachment.  Except  Jean  he  had  no 
intimates'.  He  had  no  family  on  the  only  side  of  the 
line  she  knew.  He  had  not  even  a  country. 

She  had  reached  that  point  when  Henri  came  below 
and  saluted  her  stiffly  from  the  doorway. 

"  Henri!  "  she  said.     "  I  believe  you  are  ill!  " 

"  I  am  not  ill,"  he  said,  and  threw  himself  into  the 
corner  of  the  seat.  "  You  have  read  it?  " 

She  nodded.  Even  thinking  of  it  brought  a  lump 
into  her  throat.  He  bent  forward,  but  he  did  not 
touch  her. 

"  I  meant  it,  Saralie,"  he  said.  "  Sometimes  men 
are  infatuated,  and  write  what  they  do  not  mean. 

They  are  sincere  at  the  time,  and  then  later  on 

But  I  meant  it.  I  shall  always  mean  it." 

Not  then,  nor  during  the  three  days  in  London,  did 
he  so  much  as  take  her  hand.  He  was  not  well.  He 
ate  nothing,  and  at  night  he  lay  awake  and  drank  a 


252    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

great  deal  of  water.     Once  or  twice  he  found  her  look- 
ing at  him  anxiously,  but  he  disclaimed  all  illness. 

He  had  known  from  the  beginning  what  he  was  do- 
ing. But  he  did  not  touch  her.  because  in  his  heart  he 
knew  that  where  once  he  had  been  worthy  he  was  no- 
longer  worthy.  He  had  left  his  work  for  a  woman. 

It  is  true  that  he  had  expected  to  go  back  at  once. 
But  the  Philadelphia,  which  had  been  listed  to  sail  the 
next  day,  was  held  up  by  a  strike  in  Liverpool,  and  he 
waited  on,  taking  such  hours  as  she  could  give  him,, 
feverishly  anxious  to  make  her  happy,  buying  her  little 
gifts  —  mostly  flowers,  which  she  wore  tucked  in  her 
belt  and  smiled  over,  because  she  had  never  before  re- 
ceived flowers  from  a  man. 

He  was  alternately  gay  and  silent.  They  walked 
across  the  Thames  by  the  Parliament  buildings,  and 
midway  across  he  stopped  and  looked  long  at  the 
stream.  And  they  went  to  the  Zoological  Gardens, 
where  he  gravely  named  one  of  the  sea  lions  for 
Colonel  Lilias  because  of  its  mustache,  and  insisted 
on  saluting  it  each  time  before  he  flung  it  a  fish.  Once 
he  soberly  gathered  up  a  very  new  baby  camel,  all  legs, 
in  his  arms,  and  presented  it  to  her. 

"  Please  accept  it,  mademoiselle,"  he  said.  "  With 
my  compliments." 

They  dined  together  every  night,  very  modestly,  sit- 
ting in  some  crowded  restaurant  perhaps,  but  seeing 
little  but  each  other.  Sara  Lee  had  bought  a  new  hat 
in  London  —  black,  of  course,  but  faced  with  white. 
He  adored  her  in  it.  He  would  sit  for  long  moments. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     253 

his  elbows  propped  on  the  table,  his  blond  hair  gleam- 
ing in  the  candlelight,  and  watch  her. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said  once,  "  if  you  had  never  met 
him  would  you  have  loved  me  ?  " 

"  I  do  love  you,  Henri." 

"  I  don't  want  that  sort  of  love."  And  he  had 
turned  his  head  away. 

But  one  evening  he  called  for  her  at  Morley's,  a 
white  and  crushed  boy,  needing  all  that  she  could  give 
him  and  much  more.  He  came  as  a  man  goes  to  the 
woman  he  loves  when  he  is  in  trouble,  much  as  a  child 
to  his  mother.  Sara  Lee,  coming  down  to  the  recep- 
tion room,  found  him  alone  there,  walking  rapidly  up 
and  down.  He  turned  desperate  eyes  on  her. 

"  I  have  brought  bad  news,"  he  said  abruptly. 

"The  little  house " 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  ran  away,  mademoiselle.  I  am 
A  traitor.  And  the  Germans  broke  through  last 
night." 

"Henri!" 

"  They  broke  through.  We  were  not  ready.  That 
Is  what  I  have  done." 

"  Don't  you  think,"  Sara  Lee  said  in  a  frozen  voice, 
"  that  is  what  I  have  done  ?  I  let  you  come." 

"You?  You  are  taking  the  blame?  Mademoi- 
selle, I  have  enough  to  bear  without  that." 

He  explained  further,  still  standing  in  his  rigid  atti- 
tude. If  he  had  been  white  before  at  times  he  was 
ghastly  now.  It  had  not  been  an  attack  in  force.  A 
small  number  had  got  across  and  had  penetrated  be- 


yond  the  railway  line.  There  had  been  hand-to-hand 
righting  in  the  road  beyond  the  poplars.  But  it  looked 
more  like  an  experiment,  an  endeavor  to  discover  the 
possibility  of  a  real  advance  through  the  inundation; 
or  perhaps  a  feint  to  cover  operations  elsewhere. 

"  For  every  life  lost  I  am  responsible,"  he  ended  in 
a  flat  and  lifeless  tone. 

"  But  you  might  not  have  known,"  she  protested 
wildly.  "  Even  if  you  had  been  there,  Henri,  you 
might  not  have  known."  She  knew  something  of  war 
by  that  time.  "  How  could  you  have  told  that  a  small 
movement  of  troops  was  to  take  place?  " 

"  I  should  have  been  there." 

"  But  —  if  they  came  without  warning?  " 

"  I  did  not  tell  you,"  he  said,  looking  away  from 
her.  "  There  had  been  a  warning.  I  disregarded  it." 

He  went  back  to  Belgium  that  night.  Sara  Lee,  at 
the  last,  held  out  her  hand.  She  was  terrified  for  him, 
and  she  showed  it. 

"  I  shall  not  touch  your  hand,"  he  said.  "  I  have 
forfeited  my  right  to  do  that."  Then,  seeing  what  was 
in  her  face,  he  reassured  her.  "  I  shall  not  do  that," 
he  said.  "  It  would  be  easier.  But  I  shall  have  to  go 
back  and  see  what  can  be  done." 

He  was  the  old  Henri  to  the  last,  however.  He 
went  carefully  over  her  steamship  ticket,  and  inquired 
with  equal  care  into  the  amount  of  money  she  had. 

"  It  will  take  you  home  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Very  comfortably,  Henri." 

"  It  seems  very  little." 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     255 

Then  he  said,  apropos  of  nothing:  "  Poor  Jean!  " 
When  he  left  her  at  last  he  went  to  the  door,  very 
erect  and  soldierly.  But  he  turned  there  and  stood  for 
a  moment  looking  at  her,  as  though  through  all  that 
was  coming  he  must  have  with  him,  to  give  him 
strength,  that  final  picture  of  her. 

The  elderly  chambermaid,  coming  into  Sara  Lee's 
room  the  next  morning,  found  her  fully  dressed  in 
the  frock  she  had  worn  the  night  before,  face  down 
an  her  bed. 


XXIV 

WT  was  early  in  June  when  at  last  the  lights  went 
*•  down  behind  the  back  drop  and  came  up  in  front, 
to  show  Sara  Lee  knitting  again,  though  not  by  the 
fi^e.  The  amazing  interlude  was  over. 

Over,  except  in  Sara  Lee's  heart.  The  voyage  had 
been  a  nightmare.  She  had  been  ill  for  one  thing  — 
a  combination  of  seasickness  and  heartsickness.  She 
had  allowed  Henri  to  come  to  England  with  her,  and 
the  Germans  had  broken  through.  All  the  good  she 
had  done  —  and  she  had  helped  —  was  nothing  to  this 
mischief  she  had  wrought. 

It  had  been  a  small  raid.  She  gathered  that  from 
the  papers  on  board.  But  that  was  not  the  vital 
thing.  What  mattered  was  that  she  had  let  a  man  for- 
get his  duty  to  his  country  in  his  solicitude  for  her. 

But  as  the  days  went  on  the  excitement  of  her  return 
dulled  the  edge  of  her  misery  somewhat.  The  thing 
was  done.  She  could  do  only  one  thing  to  help.  She 
would  never  go  back,  never  again  bring  trouble  and 
suffering  where  she  had  meant  only  to  bring  aid  and 
comfort. 

She  had  a  faint  hope  that  Harvey  would  meet 
her  at  the  pier.  She  needed  comforting  and  soothing, 
and  perhaps  a  bit  of  praise.  She  was  so  very  tired ; 
depressed,  too,  if  the  truth  be  known.  She  needed  a 


258    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

hand  to  lead  her  back  to  her  old  place  on  the  stage,  and 
kind  faces  to  make  her  forget  that  she  had  ever  gone 
away. 

Because  that  was  what  she  had  to  do.  She  must 
forget  Henri  and  the  little  house  on  the  road  to  the 
poplar  trees ;  and  most  of  all,  she  must  forget  that  be- 
cause of  her  Henri  had  let  the  Germans  through. 

But  Harvey  did  not  meet  her.  There  was  a  tele- 
gram saying  he  would  meet  her  train  if  she  wired  when 
she  was  leaving  —  an  exultant  message  breathing  for- 
giveness and  signed  "  with  much  love."  She  flushed 
when  she  read  it. 

Of  course  he  could  not  meet  her  in  New  York. 
This  was  not  the  Continent  in  wartirhe,  where  conven- 
tion had  died  of  a  great  necessity.  And  he  was  nov 
angry,  after  all.  A  great  wave  of  relief  swept  over 
her.  But  it  was  odd  how  helpless  she  felt.  Since  her 
arrival  in  England  months  before  there  had  always 
been  Henri  to  look  after  things  for  her.  It  was  in- 
credible to  recall  how  little  she  had  done  for  herself. 

Was  she  glad  to  be  back?  She  did  not  ask  herself. 
It  was  as  though  the  voyage  had  automatically  de- 
tached her  from  that  other  Sara  Lee  of  the  little  house. 
That  was  behind  her,  a  dream  —  a  mirage  —  or  a 
memory.  Here,  a  trifle  confused  by  the  bustle,  was 
once  again  the  Sara  Lee  who  had  knitted  for  Anna, 
and  tended  the  plants  in  the  dining-room  window,  and 
watched  Uncle  James  slowly  lowered  into  his  quiet 
grave. 

Part  of  her  detachment  was  voluntary.     She  could 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    259 

not  bear  to  remember.  She  had  but  to  close  her  eyes 
to  see  Henri's  tragic  face  that  last  night  at  Morley's. 
And  part  of  the  detachment  was  because,  after  all,  the 
interlude  had  been  but  ^.  matter  of  months,  and  reach- 
ing cut  familiar  hands  ,:;o  her  were  the  habits  and  cus- 
toms and  surrounding!?  of  all  the  earlier  years  of  her 
life,  drawing  her  bact  to  them. 

It  was  strange  how  Henri's  face  haunted  her.  She 
could  close  her  eyes  and  see  it,  line  by  line,  his  very 
swagger — for  he  did  swagger,  just  a  little;  his  tall 
figure  and  unruly  hair;  his  long,  narrow,  muscular 
hands.  Strange  and  rather  uncomfortable.  Because 
she  could  not  summon  Harvey's  image  at  all.  She 
tried  to  bring  before  her,  that  night  in  the  train  speed- 
ing west,  his  solid  figure  and  kind  eyes  as  they  would 
greet  her  the  next  day  —  tried,  and  failed.  All  she  got 
was  the  profile  of  the  photograph,  and  the  stubborn 
angle  ol  the  jaw. 

She  was  up  very  early  the  next  morning,  and  it  was 
then,  as  the  train  rolled  through  familiar  country,  that 
she  began  to  find  Harvey  again.  A  flush  of  tenderness 
warmed  her.  She  must  be  very  kind  to  him  because  of 
all  that  he  had  suffered. 

The  train  came  to  a  stop.  Rather  breathless  Sara 
Lee  went  out  on  the  platform.  Harvey  was  there,  in 
the  crowd.  He  did  not  see  her  at  first.  He  was  look- 
ing toward  the  front  of  the  train.  So  her  first  glimpse 
of  him  was  the  view  of  the  photograph.  His  hat  was 
off,  and  his  hair,  carefully  brushed  back,  gave  him  the 
eager  look  of  the  picture. 


260    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

He  was  a  strong  and  manly  figure,  as  unlike  Henri 
as  an  oak  is  unlike  one  of  Henri's  own  tall  and  swaying 
poplars.  Sara  Lee  drew  a  long  breath.  Here  after 
all  were  rest  and  peace ;  love  and  gentleness ;  quiet  days 
and  still  evenings.  No  more  crowds  and  wounds  and 
weary  men,  no  more  great  thunderings  of  guns,  no  im- 
minence of  death.  Rest  and  peace. 

Then  Harvey  saw  her,  and  the  gleam  of  happiness 
and  relief  in  his  eyes  made  her  own  eyes  misty.  She 
saw  even  in  that  first  glance  that  he  looked  thinner  and 
older.  A  pang  of  remorse  shot  through  her.  Was 
happiness  always  bought  at  the  cost  of  happiness? 
Did  one  always  take  away  in  order  to  give  ?  Not  in  so 
many  words,  but  in  a  flash  of  doubt  the  thought  went 
through  her  mind. 

There  was  no  reserve  in  Harvey's  embrace.  He  put 
his  arms  about  her  and  held  her  close.  He  did  not 
speak  at  first.  Then  : 

"  My  own  little  girl,"  he  said.  "  My  own  little 
girl!" 

Suddenly  Sara  Lee  was  very  happy.  All  her  doubts 
were  swept  away  by  his  voice,  his  arms.  There  was  no 
thrill  for  her  in  his  caress,  but  there  were  peace  and 
quiet  joy.  It  was  enough  for  her,  just  then,  that  she 
had  brought  back  some  of  the  happiness  she  had  robbed 
him  of. 

"Oh,  Harvey!"  she  said.  "I'm  glad  to  be  back 
again  —  with  you." 

He  held  her  off  then  and  looked  at  her. 

"  You  are  thin,"  he  said.     "  You're  not  pale,  but 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    261 

you  are  thin."  And  in  a  harder  voice:  "  What  did 
they  do  to  you  over  there  ?  " 

But  he  did  not  wait  for  a  reply.  He  did  not  seem 
to  want  one.  He  picked  up  her  bag,  and  guiding  her 
by  the  elbow,  piloted  her  through  the  crowd. 

"  A  lot  of  folks  wanted  to  come  and  meet  you,"  he 
said,  "  but  I  steered  them  off.  You'd  have  thought 
Roosevelt  was  coming  to  town  the  way  they've  been 
calling  up." 

"  To  meet  me?  " 

"  I  expect  the  Ladies'  Aid  Society  wanted  to  get  into 
the  papers  again,"  he  said  rather  grimly.  "  They  are 
merry  little  advertisers,  all  right." 

"  I  don't  think  that,  Harvey." 

"  Well,  I  do,"  he  said,  and  brought  her  to  a  stop 
facing  a  smart  little  car,  very  new,  very  gay. 

"  How  do  you  like  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Like  it?     Why,  it's  not  yours,  is  it?  " 

"Surest  thing  you  know.  Or,  rather,  it's  ours. 
Had  a  few  war  babies,  and  they  grew  up." 

Sara  Lee  looked  at  it,  and  for  just  an  instant,  a 
rather  sickening  instant,  she  saw  Henri's  shattered  low 
car,  battle-scarred  and  broken. 

"  It's  —  lovely,"  said  Sara  Lee.  And  Harvey  found 
no  fault  with  her  tone. 

Sara  Lee  had  intended  to  go  to  Anna's,  for  a  time  at 
least.  But  she  found  that  Belle  was  expecting  her  and 
would  not  take  no. 

"  She's  moved  the  baby  in  with  the  others,"  Harvey 
explained  as  he  took  the  wheel.  "  Wait  until  you  see 


262    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

your  room.  I  knew  we'd  be  buying  furniture  soon,  so 
J  fixed  it  up." 

He  said  nothing  for  a  time.  He  was  new  to  driving 
a  car,  and  the  traffic  engrossed  him.  But  when  they 
liad  reached  a  quieter  neighborhood  he  put  a  hand  over 
hers. 

"  Good  God,  how  I've  been  hungry  for  you !  "  he 
said.  "  I  guess  I  was  pretty  nearly  crazy  sometimes." 
He  glanced  at  her  apprehensively,  but  if  she  knew  his 
connection  with  her  recall  she  showed  no  resentment. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  there  was  in  his  voice  something 
that  reminded  her  of  Henri,  the  same  deeper  note, 
-almost  husky. 

She  was,  indeed,  asking  herself  very  earnestly  what 
was  there  in  her  of  all  people  that  should  make  two 
men  care  for  her  as  both  Henri  and  Harvey  cared.  In 
the  humility  of  all  modest  women  she  was  bewildered. 
It  made  her  rather  silent  and  a  little  sad.  She  was  so 
far  from  being  what  they  thought  her. 

Harvey,  stealing  a  moment  from  the  car  to  glance  at 
her,  saw  something  baffling  in  her  face. 

"Do  you  still  care,  Sara  Lee?"  he  asked  almost 
diffidently.  "As  much  as  ever?" 

"  I  have  come  back  to  you,"  she  said  after  an  im- 
perceptible pause. 

"  Well,  I  guess  that's  the  answer." 

He  drew  a  deep  satisfied  breath.  "  I  used  to  think 
of  you  over  there,  and  all  those  foreigners  in  uni- 
form strutting  about,  and  it  almost  got  me,  some- 
times." 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    263 

And  again,  as  long  before,  he  read  into  her  passivity 
his  own  passion,  and  was  deeply  content. 

Belle  was  waiting  on  the  small  front  porch.  There 
was  an  anxious  frown  on  her  face,  and  she  looked  first, 
not  at  Sara  Lee,  but  at  Harvey.  What  she  saw  there 
evidently  satisfied  her,  for  the  frown  disappeared. 
She  kissed  Sara  Lee  impulsively. 

All  that  afternoon,  much  to  Harvey's  resentment, 
Sara  Lee  received  callers.  The  Ladies'  Aid  came  en 
masse  and  went  out  to  the  dining-room  and  there  had 
tea  and  cake.  Harvey  disappeared  when  they  came. 

"  You  are  back,"  he  said,  "  and  safe,  and  all  that. 
But  it's  not  their  fault.  And  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'll 
stand  round  and  listen  to  them." 

He  got  his  hat  and  then,  finding  her  alone  in  a  back 
hall  for  a  moment,  reverted  uneasily  to  the  subject. 

"  There  are  two  sides  to  every  story,"  he  said. 
"  They're  going  to  knife  me  this  afternoon,  all  right. 
Damned  hypocrites !  You  just  keep  your  head,  and  I'll 
tell  you  my  side  of  it  later." 

"  Harvey,"  she  said  slowly,  "  I  want  to  know  now 
just  what  you  did.  I'm  not  angry.  I've  never  been 
angry.  But  I  ought  to  know." 

It  was  a  very  one-sided  story  that  Harvey  told  her, 
standing  in  the  little  back  hall,  with  Belle's  children 
hanging  over  the  staircase  and  begging  for  cake.  Yet 
in  the  main  it  was  true.  He  had  reached  his  limit  of 
endurance.  She  was  in  danger,  as  the  photograph 
plainly  showed.  And  a  fellow  had  a  right  to  fight  for 
his  own  happiness. 


264    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  I  wanted  you  back,  that's  all,"  he  ended.  And 
added  an  anticlimax  by  passing  a  plate  of  sliced  jelly 
roll  through  the  stair  rail  to  the  clamoring  children. 

Sara  Lee  stood  there  for  a  moment  after  he  had 
gone.  He  was  right,  or  at  least  he  had  been  within 
his  rights.  She  had  never  even  heard  of  the  new 
doctrine  of  liberty  for  women.  There  was  nothing  in 
her  training  to  teach  her  revolt.  She  was  engaged  to 
Harvey ;  already,  potentially,  she  belonged  to  him.  He 
had  interfered  with  her  life,  but  he  had  had  the  right 
to  interfere. 

And  also  there  was  in  the  back  of  her  mind  a  feeling 
that  was  almost  guilt.  She  had  let  Henri  tell  her  he 
loved  her.  She  had  even  kissed  him.  And  there  had 
been  many  times  in  the  little  house  when  Harvey,  for 
days  at  a  time,  had  not  even  entered  her  thoughts. 
There  was,  therefore,  a  very  real  tenderness  in  the  face 
she  lifted  for  his  good-by  kiss. 

To  Belle  in  the  front  hall  Harvey  gave  a  firm  order. 

"  Don't  let  any  reporters  in,"  he  said  warningly. 
"  This  is  strictly  our  affair.  It's  a  private  matter.  It's 
nobody's  business  what  she  did  over  there.  She's 
home.  That's  all  that  matters." 

Belle  assented,  but  she  was  uneasy.  She  knew  that 
Harvey  was  unreasonably,  madly  jealous  of  Sara  Lee's 
work  at  the  little  house  of  mercy,  and  she  knew  him 
well  enough  to  know  that  sooner  or  later  he  would 
show  that  jealousy.  She  felt,  too,  that  the  girl  should 
have  been  allowed  her  small  triumph  without  inter fer- 
?nce.  There  had  been  interference  enough  already. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    265 

But  it  was  easier  to  yield  to  Harvey  than  to  argue  with 
him. 

It  was  rather  a  worried  Belle  who  served  tea  that 
afternoon  in  her  dining  room,  with  Mrs.  Gregory 
pouring;  the  more  uneasy,  because  already  she  divined 
a  change  in  Sara  Lee.  She  was  as  lovely  as  ever,  even 
lovelier.  But  she  had  a  poise,  a  steadiness,  that  were 
new ;  and  silences  in  which,  to  Belle's  shrewd  eyes,  she 
seemed  to  be  weighing  things. 

Reporters  clamored  to  see  Sara  Lee  that  day,  and, 
failing  to  see  her,  telephoned  Harvey  at  his  office  to 
ask  if  it  was  true  that  she  had  been  decorated  by  the 
King.  He  was  short  to  the  point  of  affront. 

"  I  haven't  heard  anything  about  it,"  he  snapped. 
"  And  I  wouldn't  say  if  I  had.  But  it's  not  likely. 
What  d'you  fellows  think  she  was  doing  anyhow? 
Leading  a  charge?  She  was  running  a  soup  kitchen. 
That's  all." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  with  a  jerk,  but  shortly 
after  that  he  fell  to  pacing  his  small  office.  She  had 
not  said  anything  about  being  decorated,  but  the  re- 
porters had  said  it  had  been  in  a  London  newspaper. 
If  she  had  not  told  him  that,  there  were  probably  many 
things  she  had  not  told  him.  But  of  course  there  had 
been  very  little  time.  He  would  see  if  she  mentioned 
it  that  night. 

Sara  Lee  had  had  a  hard  day.  The  children  loved 
her.  In  the  intervals  of  calls  they  crawled  over  her, 
and  the  littlest  one  called  her  Saralie.  She  held  the 
child  in  her  arms  close. 


266    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  Saralie !  "  said  the  child,  over  and  over ;  "  Saralie ! 
That's  your  name.  I  love  your  name." 

And  there  came,  echoing  in  her  ears,  Henri  and  his 
tender  Saralie. 

There  was  an  oppression  on  her  too.  Her  very  bed- 
room thrust  on  her  her  approaching  marriage.  This 
was  her  own  furniture,  for  her  new  home.  It  was 
beautiful,  simple  and  good.  But  she  was  not  ready  for 
marriage.  She  had  been  too  close  to  the  great  struggle 
to  be  prepared  to  think  in  terms  of  peace  so  soon.  Per- 
haps, had  she  dared  to  look  deeper  than  that,  she  would 
have  found  something  else,  a  something  she  had  not 
counted  on. 

She  and  Belle  had  a  little  time  after  the  visitors  had 
gone,  before  Harvey  came  home.  They  sat  in  Belle's 
bedroom,  and  her  sentences  were  punctuated  by  little 
backs  briskly  presented  to  have  small  garments  fas- 
tened, or  bows  put  on  stiffly  bobbed  yellow  hair. 

"  Did  you  understand  my  letter  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I 
was  sorry  I  had  sent  it,  but  it  was  too  late  then." 

"  I  put  your  letter  and  —  theirs,  together.  I  sup- 
posed that  Harvey " 

"  He  was  about  out  of  his  mind,"  Belle  said  in  her 
worried  voice.  "  Stand  still,  Mary  Ellen !  He  went 
to  Mrs.  Gregory,  and  I  suppose  he  said  a  good  bit. 
You  know  the  way  he  does.  Anyhow,  she  was  very 
angry.  She  called  a  special  meeting,  and  —  I  tried  to 
prevent  their  recalling  you.  He  doesn't  know  that,  of 
course." 

"You  tried?" 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     267 

"  Well,  I  felt  as  though  it  was  your  work,"  Belle 
said  rather  uncomfortably.  "  Bring  me  the  comb, 
Alice.  I  guess  we  get  pretty  narrow  here  and  —  I've 
been  following  things  more  closely  since  you  went  over. 
I  know  more  than  I  did.  And,  of  course,  after  one 
marries  there  isn't  much  chance.  There  are  children 

and "  Her  face  twisted.  "  I  wish  I  could  do 

something." 

She  got  up  and  brought  from  the  dresser  a  news- 
paper clipping. 

"  It's  the  London  newspaper,"  she  explained.  "  I've 
been  taking  it,  but  Harvey  doesn't  know.  He  doesn't 
care  much  for  the  English.  This  is  about  your  being 
decorated." 

Sara  Lee  held  it  listlessly  in  her  hands. 

"  Shall  I  tell  him,  Belle?  "  she  asked. 

Belle  hesitated. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  would,"  she  said  forlornly.  "  He 
won't  like  it.  That's  why  I've  never  showed  him  that 
clipping.  He  hates  it  all  so." 

Sara  Lee  dressed  that  evening  in  the  white  frock. 
She  dressed  slowly,  thinking  hard.  All  round  her  was 
the  shiny  newness  of  her  furniture,  a  trifle  crowded  in 
Belle's  small  room.  Sara  Lee  had  a  terrible  feeling  of 
being  fastened  in  by  it.  Wherever  she  turned  it 
gleamed.  She  felt  surrounded,  smothered. 

She  had  meant  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  things  — 
of  the  little  house,  and  of  Henri,  and  of  the  King,  pin- 
ning the  medal  on  her  shabby  black  jacket  and  shaking 
hands  with  her.  Henri  she  must  tell  about  —  not  his 


268    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

name  of  course,  nor  his  madness,  nor  even  his  love. 
But  she  felt  that  she  owed  it  to  Harvey  to  have  as  few 
secrets  from  him  as  possible.  She  would  tell  about 
what  the  boy  had  done  for  her,  and  how  he,  and  he 
alone,  had  made  it  all  possible. 

Surely  Harvey  would  understand.  It  was  a  page 
that  was  closed.  It  had  held  nothing  to  hurt  him. 
She  had  come  back. 

She  stood  by  her  window,  thinking.  And  a  breath 
of  wind  set  the  leaves  outside  to  rustling.  Instantly 
she  was  back  again  in  the  little  house,  and  the  sound 
was  not  leaves,  but  the  shuffling  of  many  stealthy  feet 
on  the  cobbles  of  the  street  at  night,  that  shuffling  that 
was  so  like  the  rustling  of  leaves  in  a  wood  or  the 
murmur  of  water  running  over  a  stony  creek  bed. 


XXV 

TT  was  clear  to  Sara  Lee  from  the  beginning  of  the 
•*•  evening  that  Harvey  did  not  intend  to  hear  her 
story.  He  did  not  say  so;  indeed,  for  a  time  he  did 
not  talk  at  all.  He  sat  with  his  arms  round  her,  con- 
tent just  to  have  her  there. 

"  I  have  a  lot  of  arrears  to  make  up,"  he  said.  "  I've 
got  to  get  used  to  having  you  where  I  can  touch  you. 
To-night  when  I  go  upstairs  I'm  going  to  take  that 
damned  colorless  photograph  of  you  and  throw  it  out 
the  window." 

"  I  must  tell  you  about  your  photograph,"  she  ven- 
tured. "  It  always  stood  on  the  mantel  over  the  stove> 
and  when  there  was  a  threatened  bombardment  I  used 
to  put  it  under " 

"  Let's  not  talk,  honey." 

When  he  came  out  of  that  particular  silence  he  said 
abruptly : 

"  Will  Leete  is  dead." 

"Oh,  no!     Poor  Will  Leete." 

"  Died  of  pneumonia  in  some  God-forsaken  hole  over 
there.  He's  left  a  wife  and  nothing  much  to  keep  her. 
That's  what  comes  of  mixing  in  the  other  fellow's 
fight.  I  guess  we  can  get  the  house  as  soon  as  we 
want  it.  She  has  to  sell;  and  it  ought  to  be  a  bar- 
gain." 

260 


270    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  Harvey,"  she  said  rather  timidly,  "  you  speak  of 
die  other  fellow's  fight.  They  say  over  there  that  we 
are  s*ire  to  be  drawn  into  it  sooner  or  later." 

"  Noi  ~>n  our  life!  "  he  replied  brusquely.  "  And  if 
you  don't  mind,  honey,  I  don't  care  to  hear  about  what 
they  think  over  there."  He  got  up  from  his  old  place 
on  the  arm  of  her  chair  and  stood  on  the  rug.  "  I'd 
better  tell  you  now  how  I  feel  about  this  thing.  I  can't 
talk  about  it,  that's  all.  We'll  finish  up  now  and  let  it 
go  at  that.  I'm  sorry  there's  a  war.  I'll  send  money 
when  I  can  afford  it,  to  help  the  Belgians,  though 
my  personal  opinion  is  that  they're  getting  theirs  for 
what  they  did  in  the  Congo.  But  I  don't  want  to  hear 
about  what  you  did  over  there." 

He  saw  her  face,  and  he  went  to  her  and  kissed  her 
cheek. 

"  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,  honey,"  he  said.  "  I  love 
you  with  all  my  heart.  But  somehow  I  can't  forget 
that  you  left  me  and  went  over  there  when  there  was 
no  reason  for  it.  You  put  off  our  marriage,  and  I 
suppose  we'd  better  get  it  over.  Go  ahead  and  tell  me 
about  it." 

He  drew  up  a  chair  and  waited,  but  the  girl  smiled 
rather  tremulously. 

"  Perhaps  we'd  better  wait,  if  you  feel  that  way, 
Harvey." 

His  face  was  set  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"  There's  only  one  thing  I  want  to  know,"  he  said. 
"  And  I've  got  a  right  to  know  that.  You're  a  young 
girl,  and  you're  beautiful  —  to  me,  anyhow.  You've 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    271 

been  over  there  with  a  lot  of  crazy  foreigners."  He 
got  up  again  and  all  the  bitterness  of  the  empty  months 
was  in  his  voice.  "  Did  any  of  them  —  was  there  any- 
body there  you  cared  about  ?  " 

"  I  came  back,  Harvey." 

"  That's  not  the  question." 

"  There  were  many  men  —  officers  —  who  were  kind 
to  me.  I " 

"  That's  not  the  question,  either." 

"  If  I  had  loved  any  one  more  than  I  loved  you  I 
should  not  have  come  back." 

"  Wait  a  minute!  "  he  said  quickly.  "  You  had  to 
come  back,  you  know." 

"  I  could  have  stayed.  The  Englishwoman  who 
took  over  my  work  asked  me  to  stay  on  and  help  her." 

He  was  satisfied  then.  He  went  back  to  the  arm  of 
her  chair  and  kissed  her. 

"  All  right,"  he  said.  "  I've  suffered  the  tortures  of 
the  damned,  but  —  that  fixes  it.  Now  let's  talk  about 
something  else.  I'm  sick  of  this  war  talk." 

"I'd  like  to  tell  you  about  my  little  house.  And 
poor  Rene " 

"  Who  was  Rene?  "  he  demanded. 
•      "  The  orderly." 

"  The  one  on  the  step,  with  a  rifle?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Look  here,"  he  said.  "  I've  got  to  get  to  all  that 
gradually.  I  don't  know  that  I'll  ever  get  to  it  cheer- 
fully. But  I  can't  talk  about  that  place  to-night.  And 
I  don't  want  to  talk  war.  The  whole  business  makes 


272    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

me  sick.  I've  got  a  car  out  of  it,  and  if  things  keep  on 
we  may  be  able  to  get  the  Leete  house.  But  there's  no 
reason  in  it,  no  sense.  I'm  sick  to  death  of  hearing 
about  it.  Let's  talk  of  something  else." 

But  —  and  here  was  something  strange  —  Sara  Lee 
could  find  nothing  else  to  talk  about.  The  thing  that 
she  had  looked  forward  so  eagerly  to  telling  —  that 
was  barred.  And  the  small  gossip  of  their  little  circle, 
purely  personal  and  trivial,  held  only  faint  interest  for 
her.  For  the  first  time  they  had  no  common  ground 
to  meet  on. 

Yet  it  was  a  very  happy  man  who  went  whistling  to 
his  room  that  night.  He  was  rather  proud  of  himself 
too.  After  all  the  bitterness  of  the  past  months,  he 
had  been  gentle  and  loving  to  Sara  Lee.  He  had  not 
scolded  her. 

In  the  next  room  he  could  hear  her  going  quietly 
about,  opening  and  closing  the  drawers  of  the  new 
bureau,  moving  a  chair.  Pretty  soon,  God  willing, 
they  need  never  be  separated.  He  would  have  her 
always,  to  protect  and  cherish  and  love. 

He  went  outside  to  her  closed  door. 

"  Good  night,  sweetheart,"  he  called  softly. 

"  Good  night,  dear,"  came  her  soft  reply. 

But  long  after  he  was  asleep  Sara  Lee  stood  at  her 
window  and  listened  to  the  leaves,  so  like  the  feet  of 
weary  men  on  the  ruined  street  over  there. 

For  the  first  time  she  was  questioning  the  thing  she 
had  done.  She  loved  Harvey  —  but  there  were  many 
kinds  of  love.  There  was  the  love  of  Jean  for  Henri, 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    273 

and  there  was  the  wonderful  love,  though  the  memory 
now  was  cruel  and  hurt  her,  of  Henri  for  herself. 
And  there  was  the  love  of  Marie  for  the  memory  of 
Maurice  the  spy.  Many  kinds  of  love;  and  one  heart 
might  love  many  people,  in  different  ways. 

A  small  doubt  crept  into  her  mind.  This  feeling  she 
had  for  Harvey  was  not  what  she  had  thought  it  was 
over  there.  It  was  a  thing  that  had  belonged  to  a  cer- 
tain phase  of  her  life.  But  that  phase  was  over.  It 
was,  like  Marie's,  but  a  memory. 

This  Harvey  of  the  new  car  and  the  increased  in- 
come and  the  occasional  hardness  in  his  voice  was  not 
the  Harvey  she  had  left.  Or  perhaps  it  was  she  who 
had  changed.  She  wondered.  She  felt  precisely  the 
same,  tender  toward  her  friends,  unwilling  to  hurt 
hem.  She  did  not  want  to  hurt  Harvey. 

But  she  did  not  love  him  as  he  deserved  to  be  loved. 
And  she  had  a  momentary  lift  of  the  veil,  when  she  saw 
the  long  vista  of  the  years,  the  two  of  them  always 
together  and  always  between  them  hidden,  untouched, 
but  eating  like  a  cancer,  Harvey's  resentment  and  sus- 
picion of  her  months  away  from  him. 

There  would  always  be  a  barrier  between  them. 
Not  only  on  Harvey's  side.  There  were  things  she  had 
no  right  to  tell  —  of  Henri,  of  his  love  and  care  for 
her,  and  of  that  last  terrible  day  when  he  realized  what 
he  had  done. 

That  night,  lying  in  the  new  bed,  she  faced  that  situa- 
tion too.  How  much  was  she  to  blame ?  If  Henri  felt 
that  each  life  lost  was  lost  by  him,  wasn't  the  same  true 


274    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

for  her?  Why  had  she  allowed  him  to  stay  in  Lon- 
don? 

But  that  was  one  question  she  did  not  answer 
frankly. 

She  lay  there  in  the  darkness  and  wondered  what 
punishment  he  would  receive.  He  had  done  so  much 
for  them  over  there.  Surely,  surely,  they  would  allow 
for  that.  But  small  things  came  back  to  her  —  the 
awful  sight  of  the  miller  and  his  son,  led  away  to 
death,  with  the  sacks  over  their  heads.  The  relent- 
lessness  of  it  all,  the  expecting  that  men  should  give 
everything,  even  life  itself,  and  ask  for  no  mercy. 

And  this,  too,  she  remembered :  Once  in  a  wild 
moment  Henri  had  said  he  would  follow  her  to 
America,  and  that  there  he  would  prove  to  her  that  his 
and  not  Harvey's  was  the  real  love  of  her  life  —  the 
great  love,  that  comes  but  once  to  any  woman,  and  to 
some  not  at  all.  Yet  on  that  last  night  at  Morley's 
he  had  said  what  she  now  felt  was  a  final  farewell. 
That  last  look  of  his,  from  the  doorway  —  that  had 
been  the  look  of  a  man  who  would  fill  his  eyes  for  the 
last  time. 

She  got  up  and  stood  by  the  window.  What  had 
they  done  to  him?  What  would  they  do?  She 
looked  at  her  watch.  It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing over  there.  The  little  house  would  be  quiet  now, 
but  down  along  the  lines  men  would  be  standing  on  the 
firing  step  of  the  trench,  and  waiting,  against  what  the 
dawn  might  bring. 

Through  the  thin  wall  came  the  sound  of  Harvey's 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    275 

heavy,  regular  breathing.  She  remembered  Henri's 
light  sleeping  on  the  kitchen  floor,  his  cap  on  the  table, 
his  cape  rolled  round  him  —  a  sleeping,  for  all  his 
weariness,  so  light  that  he  seemed  always  half  con- 
scious. She  remembered  the  innumerable  times  he  had 
come  in  at  this  hour,  muddy,  sometimes  rather  gray  of 
face  with  fatigue,  but  always  cheerful. 

It  was  just  such  an  hour  that  she  found  him  giving 
hot  coffee  to  the  German  prisoner.  It  had  been  but  a 
little  earlier  when  he  had  taken  her  to  the  roof  and  had 
there  shown  her  Rene,  lying  with  his  face  up  toward 
the  sky  which  had  sent  him  death. 

A  hundred  memories  crowded  —  Henri's  love  for 
the  Belgian  soldiers,  and  theirs  for  him ;  his  humor;  his 
absurd  riddles.  There  was  the  one  he  had  asked 
Rene,  the  very  day  before  the  air  attack.  He  had 
stood  stiffly  and  frowningly  before  the  boy,  and  he 
had  asked  in  a  highly  official  tone: 

"  What  must  a  man  be  to  be  buried  with  military 
honors  ?  " 

"A  general?" 

"  No." 

"An  officer?" 

"  No,  no !  Use  your  head,  boy !  This  is  very  im- 
portant. A  mistake  would  be  most  serious." 

Rene  had  shaken  his  head  dejectedly. 

"  He  must  be  dead,  Rene,"  Henri  had  said  gravely. 
"  Entirely  dead.  As  I  said,  it  is  well  to  know  these 
things.  A  mistake  would  be  unfortunate." 

His  blue  eyes  had  gleamed  with  fun,  but  his  face  had 


276    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

remained  frowning.  It  was  quite  five  minutes  before 
she  had  heard  Rene  chuckling  on  the  doorstep. 

Was  he  still  living,  this  Henri  of  the  love  of  life  and 
courting  of  death?  Could  anything  so  living  die? 
And  if  he  had  died  had  it  been  because  of  her?  She 
faced  that  squarely  for  the  first  time. 

"  Perhaps  even  beyond  the  stars  they  have  need  of 
a  little  house  of  mercy ;  and,  God  knows,  wherever  I  am 
I  shall  have  need  of  you." 

Beyond  the  partition  Harvey  slept  on,  his  arms  under 
his  head. 


XXVI 

HARVEY  was  clamoring  for  an  early  wedding. 
And  indeed  there  were  few  arguments  against  it, 
save  one  that  Sara  Lee  buried  in  her  heart.  Belle's 
house  was  small,  and  though  she  was  welcome  there, 
and  more  than  that,  Sara  Lee  knew  that  she  was  crowd- 
ing the  family. 

Perhaps  Sara  Lee  would  have  agreed  in  the  end. 
There  seemed  to  be  nothing  else  to  do,  though  by  the 
end  of  the  first  week  she  was  no  longer  in  any  doubt 
as  to  what  her  feeling  for  Harvey  really  was.  It  was 
kindness,  affection;  but  it  was  not  love.  She  would 
marry  him  because  she  had  promised  to,  and  because 
their  small  world  expected  her  to  do  so ;  and  because  she 
could  not  shame  him  again. 

For  to  her  surprise  she  found  that  that  was  what  he 
had  felt  —  a  strange,  self-conscious  shame,  like  that  of 
a  man  who  has  been  jilted.  She  felt  that  by  coming 
back  to  him  she  had  forfeited  the  right  to  break  the 
engagement. 

So  every  hour  of  every  day  seemed  to  make  the  thing 
more  inevitable.  Belle  was  embroidering  towels  for 
her  in  her  scant  leisure.  Even  Anna,  with  a  second 
child  coming,  sent  in  her  contribution  to  the  bride's 
linen  chest.  By  almost  desperately  insisting  on  a  "isit 

277 


278    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

to  Aunt  Harriet  she  got  a  reprieve  of  a  month.  And 
Harvey  was  inclined  to  be  jealous  even  of  that. 

Sometimes,  but  mostly  at  night  when  she  was  alone, 
a  hot  wave  of  resentment  overwhelmed  her.  Why 
should  she  be  forced  into  the  thing?  Was  there  any 
prospect  of  happiness  after  marriage  when  there  was  so 
little  before? 

For  she  realized  now  that  even  Harvey  was  not 
happy.  He  had  at  last  definitely  refused  to  hear  the 
story  of  the  little  house. 

"  I'd  rather  just  forget  it,  honey,"  he  said. 

But  inconsistently  he  knew  she  did  not  forget  it,  and 
it  angered  him.  True  to  his  insistence  on  ignoring 
those  months  of  her  absence,  she  made  no  attempt  to 
tell  him.  Now  and  then,  however,  closed  in  the  li- 
brary together,  they  would  fail  of  things  to  talk  about, 
and  Sara  Lee's  knitting  needles  would  be  the  only 
sound  in  the  room.  At  those  times  he  would  sit  back 
in  his  chair  and  watch  the  far-away  look  in  her  eyes, 
and  it  maddened  him. 

From  her  busy  life  Belle  studied  them  both,  with 
an  understanding  she  did  not  reveal.  And  one  morn- 
ing when  the  mail  came  she  saw  Sara  Lee's  face  as  she 
turned  away,  finding  there  was  no  letter  for  her,  and 
made  an  excuse  to  follow  her  to  her  room. 

The  girl  was  standing  by  the  window  looking  out. 
The  children  were  playing  below,  and  the  maple  trees 
were  silent.  Belle  joined  her  there  and  slipped  an  arm 
round  her. 

"  Why  are  you  doing  it,  Sara  Lee?  "  she  asked. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    279 

''Doing  what?" 

"  Marrying  Harvey." 

Sara  Lee  looked  at  her  with  startled  eyes. 

"  I'm  engaged  to  him,  Belle.     I've  promised." 

"  Exactly,"  said  Belle  dryly.  "  But  that's  hardly  a 
good  reason,  is  it?  It  takes  more  than  a  promise." 
She  stared  down  at  the  flock  of  children  in  the  yard 
below.  "  Harvey's  a  man,"  she  said.  "  He  doesn't 
understand,  but  I  do.  You've  got  to  care  a  whole  lot, 
Sara  Lee,  if  you're  going  to  go  through  with  it.  It 
takes  a  lot  of  love,  when  it  comes  to  having  children 
and  all  that." 

"  He's  so  good,  Belle.     How  can  I  hurt  him?  " 

"  You'll  hurt  him  a  lot  more  by  marrying  him  when 
you  don't  love  him." 

"If  only  I  could  have  a  little  time,"  she  cried  wildly. 
"  I'm  so  —  I'm  tired,  Belle.  And  I  can't  forget  about 
the  war  and  all  that.  I've  tried.  Sometimes  I  think 
if  we  could  talk  it  over  together  I'd  get  it  out  of  my 
mind." 

"  He  won't  talk  about  it?  " 

"  No." 

"  He's  my  own  brother,  and  I  love  him  dearly.  But 
sometimes  I  think  he's  hard.  Not  that  he's  ever  ugly," 
she  hastened  to  add ;  '*  but  he's  stubborn.  There's  a 
sort  of  wall  in  him,  and  he  puts  some  things  behind  it. 
And  it's  like  beating  against  a  rock  to  try  to  get  at 
them." 

After  a  little  silence  she  said  hesitatingly : 

"  We've  got  him  to  think  of  too.     He  has  a  right  to 


280    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

be  happy.  Sometimes  I've  looked  at  you  —  you're  so 
pretty,  Sara  Lee  —  and  I've  wondered  if  there  wasn't 
some  one  over  there  who  —  cared  for  you." 

"  There  was  one  man,  an  officer Oh,  Belle,  I 

can't  tell  you.  Not  you!  " 

"  Why  not !  "  asked  Belle  practically.  "  You  ought 
to  talk  it  out  to  some  one,  and  if  Harvey  insists  on 
being  a  fool  that's  his  own  fault." 

For  all  the  remainder  of  that  sunny  morning  Sara 
Lee  talked  what  was  in  her  heart.  And  Belle  —  poor, 
romantic,  starved  Belle  —  heard  and  thrilled.  She 
made  buttonholes  as  she  listened,  but  once  or  twice  a 
new  tone  in  Sara  Lee's  voice  caused  her  to  look  up. 
Here  was  a  new  Sara  Lee,  a  creature  of  vibrant  voice 
and  glowing  eyes ;  and  Belle  was  not  stupid.  She  saw 
that  it  was  Henri  whose  name  brought  the  deeper  note. 

Sara  Lee  had  stopped  with  her  recall,  had  stopped 
and  looked  about  the  room  with  its  shiny  new  furni- 
ture and  had  shivered.  Belle  bent  over  her  work. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  back?  "  she  asked. 

Sara  Lee  looked  at  her  piteously. 

"  How  can  I  ?  There  is  Harvey.  And  the  society 
would  not  send  me  again.  It's  over,  Belle.  All  over." 

After  a  pause  Belle  said :  "  What's  become  of 
Henri  ?  He  hasn't  written,  has  he  ?  " 

Sara  Lee  got  up  and  went  to  the  window. 

"  I  don't  know  where  he  is.     He  may  be  dead." 

Her  voice  was  flat  and  lifeless.  Belle  knew  all  that 
she  wanted  to  know.  She  rose  and  gathered  up  her 
sewing. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     281 

"  I'm  going  to  talk  to  Harvey.  You're  not  going  to 
be  rushed  into  a  wedding.  You're  tired,  and  it's  all 
nonsense.  Well,  I'll  have  to  run  now  and  dress  the 
children." 

That  night  Harvey  and  Belle  had  almost  a  violent 
scene.  He  had  taken  Sara  Lee  over  the  Leete  house 
that  evening.  Will  Leete's  widow  had  met  them  there, 
a  small  sad  figure  in  her  mourning,  but  very  composed, 
until  she  opened  the  door  into  a  tiny  room  upstairs 
with  a  desk  and  a  lamp  in  it. 

"  This  was  Will's  study,"  she  said.  "  He  did  his 
work  here  in  the  evenings,  and  I  sat  in  that  little  chair 

and  sewed.  I  never  thought  then "  Her  lips 

quivered. 

"  Pretty  rotten  of  Will  Leete  to  leave  that  little  thing 
alone,"  said  Harvey  on  their  way  home.  "  He  had  his 
fling;  and  she's  paying  for  it." 

But  Sara  Lee  was  silent.  It  was  useless  to  try  to 
make  Harvey  understand  the  urge  that  had  called  Will 
Leete  across  the  sea  to  do  his  share  for  the  war,  and 
that  had  brought  him  that  peace  of  God  that  passeth 
all  understanding. 

It  was  not  a  good  time  for  Belle  to  put  up  to  him  her 
suggestion  for  a  delay  in  the  marriage,  that  evening 
after  their  return.  He  took  it  badly  and  insisted  on 
sending  upstairs  for  Sara  Lee. 

"  Did  you  ask  Belle  to  do  this  ?  "  he  demanded 
bluntly. 

"To  do  what?" 


282    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  To  put  things  off." 

"  I  have  already  told  you,  Harvey,"  Belle  put  in. 
"  It  is  my  own  idea.  She  is  tired.  She's  been  through 
a  lot.  I've  heard  the  story  you're  too  stubborn  to 
listen  to.  And  I  strongly  advise  her  to  wait  a  while." 

And  after  a  time  he  agreed  ungraciously.  He 
would  buy  the  house  and  fix  it  over,  and  in  the  early 
fall  it  would  be  ready. 

"  Unless,"  he  added  to  Sara  Lee  with  a  bitterness 
born  of  disappointment  — "  unless  you  change  your 
mind  again." 

He  did  not  kiss  her  that  night  when  she  and  Belle 
went  together  up  the  stairs.  But  he  stared  after  her 
gloomily,  with  hurt  and  bewilderment  in  his  eyes. 

He  did  not  understand.  He  never  would.  She  had 
come  home  to  him  all  gentleness  and  tenderness,  ready 
to  find  in  him  the  things  she  needed  so  badly.  But  out 
of  his  obstinacy  and  hurt  he  had  himself  built  up  a 
barrier. 

That  night  Sara  Lee  dreamed  that  she  was  back  in 
the  little  house  of  mercy.  Rene  was  there ;  and  Henri ; 
and  Jean,  with  the  patch  over  his  eye.  They  were 
waiting  for  the  men  to  come,  and  the  narrow  hall  was 
full  of.  the  odor  of  Marie's  soup.  Then  she  heard 
them  coming,  the  shuffling  of  many  feet  on  the  road. 
She  went  to  the  door,  with  Henri  beside  her,  and 
watched  them  coming  up  the  road,  a  deeper  shadow  in 
the  blackness  —  tired  men,  wounded  men,  homeless 
men  coming  to  her  little  house  with  its  firelight  and  its 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     283 

warmth.  Here  and  there  the  matgh  that  lighted  a 
cigarette  showed  a  white  but  smiling  face.  They 
stopped  before  the  door,  and  the  warm  little  house,  with 
its  guarded  lights  and  its  fooa  and  cheer,  took  them  in. 


XXVII 

A  VERY  pale  and  desperate  Henri  took  the  night 
train  for  Folkestone  after  he  had  said  good-by  to 
Sara  Lee.  He  alternately  chilled  and  burned  with 
fever,  and  when  he  slept,  as  he  did  now  and  then, 
going  off  suddenly  into  a  doze  and  waking  with  a  jerk, 
it  was  to  dream  of  horrors. 

He  thought,  in  his  wilder  intervals,  of  killing  him- 
self. But  his  code  did  not  include  such  a  shirker's 
refuge.  He  was  going  back  to  tell  his  story  and  to 
take  his  punishment. 

He  had  cabled  to  Jean  to  meet  him  at  Calais,  but 
when,  at  dawn  the  next  morning,  the  channel  boat  drew 
in  to  the  wharf  there  was  no  sign  of  Jean  or  the  car. 
Henri  regarded  the  empty  quay  with  apathetic  eyes. 
They  would  come,  later  on.  If  he  could  only  get  his 
head  down  and  sleep  for  a  while  he  would  be  better  able 
to  get  toward  the  Front.  For  he  knew  now  that  he 
was  ill.  He  had,  indeed,  been  ill  for  days,  but  he  did 
not  realize  that.  And  he  hated  illness.  He  regarded 
it  with  suspicion,  as  a  weakness  not  for  a  strong  man. 

The  drowsy  girl  in  her  chair  at  the  Gare  Maritime 
regarded  him  curiously  and  with  interest.  Many 
women  turned  to  look  after  Henri,  but  he  did  not  know 
this.  Had  he  known  it  he  would  have  regarded  it 
much  as  he  did  illness. 

285 


286    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

The  stupid  boy  was  not  round.  The  girl  herself 
took  the  key  and  led  the  way  down  the  long  corridor 
upstairs  to  a  room.  Henri  stumbled  in  and  fell  across 
the  bed.  He  was  almost  immediately  asleep. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  he  wakened.  Strange  that 
Jean  had  not  come.  He  got  up  and  bathed  his  face. 
His  right  arm  was  very  stiff  now,  and  pains  ran  from 
the  old  wound  in  his  chest  down  to  the  fingers  of  his 
hand.  He  tried  to  exercise  to  limber  it,  and  grew 
almost  weak  with  pain. 

At  six  o'clock,  when  Jean  had  not  come,  Henri  re- 
sorted to  ways  that  he  knew  of  and  secured  a  car.  He 
had  had  some  coffee  by  that  time,  and  he  felt  much 
better  —  so  well  indeed  that  he  sang  under  his  breath 
a  strange  rambling  song  that  sounded  rather  like  Rene's 
rendering  of  Tipperary.  The  driver  looked  at  him 
curiously  every  now  and  then. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  they  reached  La  Panne. 
Henri  went  at  once  to  the  villa  set  high  on  a  sand  dune 
where  the  King's  secretary  lived.  The  house  was  dark, 
but  in  the  library  at  the  rear  there  was  a  light.  He 
stumbled  along  the  paths  beside  the  house,  and  reached 
at  last,  after  interminable  miles,  when  the  path  some- 
times came  up  almost  to  his  eyes  and  again  fell  away 
so  that  it  seemed  to  drop  from  under  his  feet  —  at 
last  he  reached  the  long  French  doors,  with  their 
drawn  curtains.  He  opened  the  door  suddenly  and 
thereby  surprised  the  secretary,  who  was  a  most  dig- 
nified and  rather  nervous  gentleman,  into  laying  his 
hand  on  a  heavy  inkwell. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    287 

"  I  wish  to  see  the  King,"  said  Henri  in  a  loud  tone. 
Because  at  that  moment  the  secretary,  lamp  and  ink^ 
well  and  all,  retired  suddenly  to  a  very  great  distance, 
as  if  one  had  viewed  them  through  the  reverse  end  of 
an  opera  glass. 

The  secretary  knew  Henri.  He,  too,  eyed  him  cu- 
riously. 

"  The  King  has  retired,  monsieur." 

"  I  think,"  said  Henri  in  a  dangerous  tone,  "  that  he 
will  see  me." 

To  tell  the  truth,  the  secretary  rather  thought  so  too. 
There  was  a  strange  rumor  going  round,  to  the  effect 
that  the  boy  had  followed  a  woman  to  England  at  a 
critical  time.  Which  would  have  been  a  pity,  the  sec- 
retary thought.  There  were  so  many  women,  and  so 
few  men  like  Henri. 

The  secretary  considerd  gravely.  Henri  was  by  thai 
time  in  a  chair,  but  it  moved  about  so  that  he  had  to 
hold  very  tight  to  the  arms.  When  he  looked  up  again 
the  secretary  had  picked  up  his  soft  black  hat  and  was 
at  the  door. 

"  I  shall  inquire,"  he  said.  Henri  saluted  him  stiffly, 
with  his  left  hand,  as  he  went  out. 

The  secretary  went  to  His  Majesty's  equerry,  who 
was  in  the  next  house  playing  solitaire  and  trying  to 
forget  the  family  he  had  left  on  the  other  side  of  the 
line. 

So  it  was  that  in  due  time  Henri  again  traversed 
miles  of  path  and  pavement,  between  tall  borders  of 
wild  sea  grass,  miles  which  perhaps  were  a  hundred 


288    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

yards.  And  went  round  the  screen,  and  —  found  the 
King  on  the  hearthrug.  But  when  he  drew  himself 
stiffly  to  attention  he  overdid  the  thing  rather  and  went 
over  backward  with  a  crash. 

He  was  up  again  almost  immediately,  very  flushed 
and  uncomfortable.  After  that  he  kept  himself  in 
hand,  but  the  King,  who  had  a  way  all  his  own  of  for- 
getting his  divine  right  to  rule,  and  a  great  many  other 
things  —  the  King  watched  him  gravely. 

Henri  sat  in  a  chair  and  made  a  clean  breast  of  it. 
Because  he  was  feeling  rather  strange  he  told  a  great 
many  things  that  an  agent  of  the  secret  service  is  hardly 
expected  to  reveal  to  his  king.  He  mentioned,  for  in- 
stance, the  color  of  Sara  Lee's  eyes,  and  the  way  she 
bandaged,  like  one  who  had  been  trained. 

Once,  in  the  very  middle  of  his  narrative,  where  he 
had  put  the  letter  from  the  Front  in  his  pocket  and 
decided  to  go  to  England  anyhow,  he  stopped  and 
hummed  Rene's  version  of  Tipperary.  Only  a  bar  or 
two.  Then  he  remembered. 

But  one  thing  brought  him  round  with  a  start. 

"  Then,"  said  the  King  slowly,  "  Jean  was  not  with 
you?  " 

Only  he  did  not  call  him  Jean.  He  gave  him  his 
other  name,  which,  like  Henri's,  is  not  to  be  told. 

Henri's  brain  cleared  then  with  the  news  that  Jean 
was  missing.  When,  somewhat  later,  he  staggered  out 
ot  the  villa,  it  was  under  royal  instructions  to  report 
to  the  great  hospital  along  the  sea  front  and  near  by, 
and  there  to  go  to  bed  and  have  a  doctor.  Indeed. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     289 

because  the  boy's  eyes  were  wild  by  that  time,  the 
equerry  went  along  and  held  his  arm.  But  that  was 
because  Henri  was  in  open  revolt,  and  while  walking 
steadily  enough  showed  a  tendency  to  bolt  every  now 
and  then. 

He  would  stop  on  the  way  and  argue,  though  one 
does  not  argue  easily  with  an  equerry. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  would  say  fretfully.  "  God  knows 
where  he  is.  He'd  never  give  me  up  if  I  were  the 
one." 

And  once  he  shook  off  the  equerry  violently  and 
said: 

"  Let  go  of  me,  I  tell  you !  I'll  come  back  and  go  to 
bed  when  I've  found  him." 

The  equerry  soothed  him  like  a  child. 

An  English  nurse  took  charge  of  Henri  in  the  hos- 
pital, and  put  him  to  bed.  He  was  very  polite  to  her, 
and  extremely  cynical.  She  sat  in  a  chair  by  his  bed 
and  held  the  key  of  the  room  in  her  hand.  Once  he 
thought  she  was  Sara  Lee,  but  that  was  only  for  a 
moment.  She  did  not  look  like  Sara  Lee.  And  she 
was  suspicious,  too,*  for  when  he  asked  her  what  she 
could  put  in  her  left  hand  that  she  could  not  put  in  her 
right,  she  moved  away  and  placed  the  door  key  on  the 
stand,  out  of  reach. 

However,  toward  morning  she  dozed.  There  was 
steady  firing  at  Nieuport  and  the  windows  shook  con- 
stantly. An  ambulance  came  in,  followed  by  a  stirring 
on  the  lower  floor.  Then  silence.  He  got  up  then 
and  secured  the  key.  There  was  no  time  for  dressing, 


290    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

because  she  was  a  suspicious  person  and  likely  to  waken 
at  any  time.  He  rolled  his  clothing  into  a  bundle  and 
carried  it  under  his  well  arm.  The  other  was  almost 
useless. 

The  ambulance  was  still  waiting  outside,  at  the  foot 
of  the  staircase.  There  were  voices  and  lights  in  the 
operating  room,  forward  along  the  tiled  hall.  Still  in 
his  night  clothing,  Henri  got  into  the  ambulance  and 
threw  his  uniform  behind  him.  Then  he  got  the  car 
under  way. 

Outside  the  village  he  paused  long  enough  to  dress. 
His  head  was  amazingly  clear.  He  had  never  felt  so 
sure  of  himself  before.  As  to  his  errand  he  had  no 
doubt  whatever.  Jean  had  learned  that  he  had  crossed 
the  channel.  Therefore  Jean  had  taken  up  his  work 
—  Jean,  who  had  but  one  eye  and  was  as  clumsy  as  a 
bear.  The  thought  of  Jean  crawling  through  the  Ger- 
man trenches  set  him  laughing  until  he  ended  with  a 
sob. 

It  was  rather  odd  about  the  ambulance.  It  did  not 
keep  the  road  very  well.  Sometimes  it  was  on  one  side 
and  sometimes  on  the  other.  It  slid  as  though  the 
road  were  greased.  And  after  a  time  Henri  made  an 
amazing  discovery.  He  was  not  alone  in  the  car. 

He  looked  back,  without  stopping,  and  the  machine 
went  off  in  a  wide  arc.  He  brought  it  back  again, 
grinning. 

"  Thought  you  had  me,  didn't  you?  "  he  observed  to 
the  car  in  general,  and  the  engine  in  particular.  "  Now 
* —  no  tricks !  " 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     291 

There  was  a  wounded  man  in  the  car.  He  had  had 
morphia  and  he  was  very  comfortable.  He  was  not 
badly  hurt,  and  he  considered  that  he  was  being  taken 
to  Calais.  He  was  too  tired  to  talk,  and  the  swinging 
of  the  car  rather  interested  him.  He  would  doze  and 
waken  and  doze  again.  But  at  last  he  heard  some- 
thing that  made  him  rise  on  his  elbow. 

It  was  the  hammering  of  the  big  guns. 

He  called  Henri's  attention  to  this,  but  Henri 
said: 

"  Lie  down,  Jean,  and  don't  talk.  We'll  make  it 
yet." 

The  wounded  man  intended  to  make  a  protest,  but 
he  went  to  sleep  instead. 

They  had  reached  the  village  now  where  was  the 
little  house  of  mercy.  The  ambulance  rolled  and 
leaped  down  the  street,  with  both  lights  tun  on,  which 
was  forbidden,  and  came  to  a  stop  at  the  door.  The 
man  inside  was  grunting  then,  and  Henri,  whose  head 
had  never  been  so  clear,  got  out  and  went  round  to  the 
rear  of  the  car. 

"  Now,  out  with  you,  comrade !  "  he  said.  "  I  have 
made  an  error,  but  it  is  immaterial.  Can  you  walk?  " 

He  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  the  man  inside  saw  his 
burning  eyes  and  shaking  hands.  Even  through  the 
apathy  of  the  morphia  he  felt  a  thrill  of  terror.  He 
could  walk.  He  got  out  while  Henri  pounded  at  the 
door. 

"  A  Mention !  "  he  called.     "  A  Mention !  " 

Then  he  hummed  an  air  of  the  camps : 


292    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

Trou  la  la,  qa  ne  va  guere; 
Trou  Id  la,  qa  ne  va  pas. 

When  he  heard  steps  inside  Henri  went  back  to  the 
ambulance.  He  got  in  and  drove  it,  lights  and  all, 
down  the  street. 

Trou  la  la,  qa  ne  va  guere; 
Trou  la  la,  qa  ne  va  pas. 

Somewhere  down  the  road  beyond  the  poplar  trees 
he  abandoned  the  ambulance.  They  found  it  there  the 
next  morning,  or  rather  what  was  left  of  it.  Evi- 
dently its  two  unwinking  eyes  had  got  on  the  Germans' 
nerves. 

Early  the  next  morning  a  Saxon  regiment,  standing 
on  the  firing  step  ready  for  what  the  dawn  might  bring 
forth,  watched  the  mist  rise  from  the  water  in  front 
of  them.  It  shone  on  a  body  in  a  Belgian  uniform, 
lying  across  their  wire,  and  very  close  indeed. 

Now  the  Saxons  are  not  Prussians,  so  no  one  for 
sport  fired  at  the  body.  Which  was  rather  a  good 
thing,  because  it  moved  slightly  and  stirred.  And  then 
in  a  loud  voice,  which  is  an  unusual  thing  for  bodies 
to  possess,  it  began  to  sing : 

Trou  la  la,  qa  ne  va  guere; 
Trou  la  la,  qa  ne  va  pas. 


XXVIII 

T  ATE  in  August  Sara  Lee  broke  her  engagement 
••-^  with  Harvey.  She  had  been  away,  at  Cousin 
Jennie's,  for  a  month,  and  for  the  first  time  since  her 
return  she  had  had  time  to  think.  In  the  little  subur- 
ban town  there  were  long  hours  of  quiet  when  Cousin 
Jennie  mended  on  the  porch  and  Aunt  Harriet,  enjoy- 
ing a  sort  of  reflected  glory  from  Sara  Lee,  presided 
at  Red  Cross  meetings. 

Sara  Lee  decided  to  send  for  Harvey,  and  he  came 
for  a  week-end,  arriving  pathetically  eager,  but  with  a 
sort  of  defiance  too.  He  was  determined  to  hold  her, 
but  to  hold  her  on  his  own  terms. 

Aunt  Harriet  had  been  vaguely  uneasy,  but  Har- 
vey's arrival  seemed  to  put  everything  right.  She  even 
kissed  him  when  he  came,  and  took  great  pains  to  carry 
off  Cousin  Jennie  when  she  showed  an  inclination  to- 
ward conversation  and  a  seat  on  the  porch. 

Sara  Lee  had  made  a  desperate  resolve.  She  in- 
tended to  lay  all  her  cards  on  the  table.  He  should 
know  all  that  there  was  to  know.  If,  after  that,  he  still 
wanted  to  hold  her  —  but  she  did  not  go  so  far.  She 
was  so  sure  he  would  release  her. 

It  was  a  despairing  thing  to  do,  but  she  was  rather 
despairing  those  days.  There  had  been  no  letter  from 
Henri  or  from  Jean.  She  had  written  them  both  sev- 
feral  times,  to  Dunkirk,  to  the  Savoy  in  London,  to  the 


294    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

little  house  near  the  Front.  But  no  replies  had  come. 
Yet  mail  was  going  through.  Mabel  Andrews'  let- 
ters from  Boulogne  came  regularly. 

When  August  went  by,  with  no  letters  save  Har- 
vey's, begging  her  to  come  back,  she  gave  up  at  last. 
In  the  little  church  on  Sundays,  with  Jennie  on  one 
side  and  Aunt  Harriet  on  the  other,  she  voiced  small 
silent  prayers  —  that  the  thing  she  feared  had  not 
happened.  But  she  could  not  think  of  H^nri  as  not 
living.  He  was  too  strong,  too  vital. 

She  did  not  understand  herself  those  days.  She 
was  desperately  unhappy.  Sometimes  she  wondered 
if  it  would  not  be  easier  to  know  the  truth,  even  if  that 
truth  comprehended  the  worst. 

Once  she  received,  from  some  unknown  hand,  a 
French  journal,  and  pored  over  it  for  days  with  her 
French  dictionary,  to  find  if  it  contained  any  news. 
It  was  not  until  a  week  later  that  she  received  a  letter 
from  Mabel,  explaining  that  she  had  sent  the  journal, 
which  contained  a  description  of  her  hospital. 

All  of  Harvey's  Sunday  she  spent  in  trying  to  bring 
her  courage  to  the  point  of  breaking  the  silence  he  had 
imposed  on  her,  but  it  was  not  until  evening  that  she 
succeeded.  The  house  was  empty.  The  family  had 
gone  to  church.  On  the  veranda,  with  the  heavy  scent 
of  phlox  at  night  permeating  the  still  air,  Sara  Lee 
made  her  confession.  She  began  at  the  beginning. 
Harvey  did  not  stir  —  until  she  told  of  the  way  she 
had  stowed  away  to  cross  the  channel.  Then  he 
moved. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     295 

"  This  fellow  who  planned  that  for  you  —  did  you 
ever  see  him  again?  " 

"  He  met  me  in  Calais." 

"And  then  what?" 

"  He  took  me  to  Dunkirk  in  his  car.  Such  a  hid- 
eous car,  Harvey  —  all  wrecked.  It  had  been  under 
fire  again  and  again.  I " 

"  He  took  you  to  Dunkirk!     Who  was  with  you?  " 

"  Just  Jean,  the  chauffeur." 

"  I  like  his  nerve !  Wasn't  there  in  all  that  God- 
forsaken country  a  woman  to  take  with  you?  You 
and  this What  was  his  name,  anyhow?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you  that,  Harvey." 

"  Look  here !  "  he  burst  out.  "  How  much  of  this 
aren't  you  going  to  tell  ?  Because  I  want  it  all  or  not 
at  all." 

"  I  can't  tell  you  his  name.  I'm  only  trying  to  make 
you  understand  the  way  I  feel  about  things.  His  name 
doesn't  matter."  She  clenched  her  hands  in  the  dark- 
ness. "  I  don't  think  he  is  alive  now." 

He  tried  to  see  her  face,  but  she  turned  it  away. 

"  Dead,  eh  ?     What  makes  you  think  that  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  heard  from  him." 

"  Why  should  you  hear  from  him  ?  "  His  voice  cut 
like  a  knife.  "Look  at  me.  Why  should  he  write 
to  you?" 

"  He  cared  for  me,  Harvey." 

He  sat  in  a  heavy  silence  which  alarmed  her. 

"  Don't  be  angry,  please,"  she  begged.  "  I  couldn't 
bear  it.  It  wasn't  my  fault,  or  his  either." 


296    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  The  damned  scoundrel !  "  said  Harvey  thickly. 

But  she  reached  over  and  put  a  trembling  hand 
over  his  lips. 

"Don't  say  that,"  she  said.  "Don't!  I  won't 
allow  you  to.  When  I  think  what  may  have  happened 
to  him,  I "  Her  voice  broke. 

"  Go  on,"  Harvey  said  in  cold  tones  she  had  never 
ntard  before.  "  Tell  it  all,  now  you've  begun  it. 
God  knows  I  didn't  want  to  hear  it.  He  took  you  to 
the  hotel  at  Dunkirk,  the  way  those  foreigners  take 
their  women.  And  he  established  you  in  the  house  at 
the  Front,  I  suppose,  like  a " 

Sara  Lee  suddenly  stood  up  and  drew  off  her 
ring. 

"  You  needn't  go  on,"  she  said  quietly.  "  I  had  a 
decision  to  make  to-night,  and  I  have  made  it.  Ever 
since  I  came  home  I  have  been  trying  to  go  back  to 
where  we  were  before  I  left.  It  isn't  possible.  You 
•are  what  you  always  were,  Harvey.  But  I've  changed. 
I  can't  go  back." 

She  put  the  ring  into  his  hand. 

"  It  isn't  that  you  don't  love  me.  I  think  you  do. 
But  I've  been  thinking  things  over.  It  isn't  only  to- 
night, or  what  you  just  said.  It's  because  we  don't 
care  for  the  same  things,  or  believe  in  them." 

"  But  —  if  we  love  each  other " 

"  It's  not  that,  either.  I  used  to  feel  that  way.  A 
ihome,  and  some  one  to  care  about,  and  a  little  pleas- 
ure and  work." 

"  That  ought  to  be  enough,  honey." 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    297 

He  was  terrified.  His  anger  was  gone.  He  placed 
an  appealing  hand  on  her  arm,  and  as  she  stood  there 
in  the  faint  starlight  the  wonder  of  her  once  again 
got  him  by  the  throat.  She  had  that  sort  of  repressed 
eagerness,  that  look  of  being  poised  for  flight,  that  had 
always  made  him  feel  cheap  and  unworthy. 

"  Isn't  that  enough,  honey?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Not  now,"  she  said,  her  eyes  turned  toward  the 
east.  "  These  are  great  days,  Harvey.  They  are 
greater  and  more  terrible  than  any  one  can  know  who 
has  not  been  there.  I've  been  there  and  I  know.  I 
haven't  the  right  to  all  this  peace  and  comfort  when  I 
know  how  things  are  going  over  there." 

Down  the  quiet  street  of  the  little  town  service  was 
over.  The  last  hymn  had  been  sung.  Through  the 
open  windows  came  the  mellow  sound  of  the  minister's 
voice  in  benediction,  too  far  away  to  be  more  than  a 
tone,  like  a  single  deep  note  of  the  organ.  Sara  Lee 
listened.  She  knew  the  words  he  was  saying,  and  she 
listened  with  her  eyes  turned  to  the  east: 

"  The  peace  of  God  that  passeth  all  understanding 
be  and  abide  with  you  all,  forevermore.  Amen." 

Sara  Lee  listened,  and  from  the  step  below  her  Har- 
vey watched  her  with  furtive,  haggard  eyes.  He  had 
not  heard  the  benediction. 

"  The  peace  of  God !  "  she  said  slowly.  "  There  is 
only  one  peace  of  God,  Harvey,  and  that  is  service. 
I  am  going  back/' 

"  Service !  "  he  scoffed.  "  You  are  going  back  to 
him!" 


298    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  I'm  afraid  he  is  not  there  any  more.  I  am  going 
back  to  work.  But  if  he  is  there " 

Harvey  slid  the  ring  into  his  pocket.  "  What  if  he's 
not  there,"  he  demanded  bitterly.  "  If  you  think,  after 
all  this,  that  I'm  going  to  wait,  on  the  chance  of  your 
coming  back  to  me,  you're  mistaken.  I've  been  a 
laughing  stock  long  enough." 

In  the  light  of  her  new  decision  Sara  Lee  viewed  him 
for  the  first  time  with  the  pitiless  eyes  of  women  who 
have  lost  a  faith.  She  saw  him  for  what  he  was,  not 
deliberately  cruel,  not  even  unkindly,  but  selfish,  small, 
without  vision.  Harvey  was  for  his  own  fireside,  his 
office,  his  little  family  group.  His  labor  would  al- 
ways be  for  himself  and  his  own.  Whereas  Sara  Lee 
was,  now  and  forever,  for  all  the  world,  her  hands  con- 
secrated to  bind  up  its  little  wounds  and  to  soothe  its 
great  ones.  Harvey  craved  a  cheap  and  easy  peace. 
She  wanted  no  peace  except  that  bought  by  service,  the 
peace  of  a  tired  body,  the  peace  of  the  little  house  in 
Belgium  where,  after  days  of  torture,  weary  men  found 
quiet  and  ease  and  the  cheer  of  the  open  door. 


XXIX 

T  ATE  in  October  Sara  Lee  went  back  to  the  little 
•*— *  house  of  mercy;  went  unaccredited,  and  with  her 
own  money.  She  had  sold  her  bit  of  property. 

In  London  she  went  to  the  Traverses,  as  before. 
But  with  a  difference  too.  For  Sara  Lee  had  learned 
the  strangeness  of  the  English,  who  are  slow  to  friend- 
ships but  who  never  forget.  Indeed  a  telegram  met 
her  at  Liverpool  asking  her  to  stop  with  them  in  Lon- 
don. She  replied,  refusing,  but  thanking  them,  and 
saying  she  would  call  the  next  afternoon. 

Everything  was  the  same  at  Morley's:  Rather  a 
larger  percentage  of  men  in  uniform,  perhaps;  greater 
crowds  in  the  square ;  a  little  less  of  the  optimism 
which  in  the  spring  had  predicted  victory  before 
autumn.  But  the  same  high  courage,  for  all  that. 

August  greeted  her  like  an  old  friend.  Even  the 
waiters  bowed  to  her,  and  upstairs  the  elderly  chamber- 
maid fussed  over  her  like  i  mother. 

"  And  you're  going  back !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Fancy 
that,  now !  You  are  brave,  miss." 

But  her  keen  eyes  saw  a  change  in  Sara  Lee.  Her 
smile  was  the  same,  but  there  were  times  when  she  for- 
got to  finish  a  sentence,  and  she  stood,  that  first  morn- 
ing, for  an  hour  by  the  window,  looking  out  as  if  she 
saw  nothing. 

She  went,  before  the  visit  to  the  Traverses,  to  the 
299 


300    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

Church  of  Saint  Martin  in  the  Fields.  It  was  empty, 
save  for  a  woman  in  a  corner,  who  did  not  kneel,  but 
sat  staring  quietly  before  her.  Sara  Lee  prayed  an  in- 
articulate bit  of  a  prayer,  that  what  the  Traverses 
would  have  to  tell  her  should  not  be  the  thing  that  she 
feared,  but  that,  if  it  were,  she  be  given  courage  to 
meet  it  and  to  go  on  with  her  wor'k. 

The  Traverses  would  know ;  Mrs.  Cameron  was  a 
friend.  They  would  know .  about  Henri,  and  about 
Jean.  Soon,  within  the  hour,  she  would  learn  every- 
thing. So  she  asked  for  strength,  and  then  sat  there 
for  a  time,  letting  the  peace  of  the  old  church  quiet 
Tier,  as  had  the  broken  walls  and  shattered  altar  of  that 
•other  church,  across  the  channel. 

It  was  rather  a  surprise  to  Sara  Lee  to  have  Mrs. 
Travers  put  her  arms  about  her  and  kiss  her.  Mr. 
Travers,  too,  patted  her  hand  when  he  took  it.  But 
they  had,  for  all  that,  the  reserve  of  their  class.  Much 
that  they  felt  about  Sara  Lee  they  did  not  express  even 
to  each  other. 

"  We  are  so  grateful  to  you,"  Mrs.  Travers  said. 

'"  I  am  only  one  mother,  and  of  course  now "  She 

looked  down  at  her  black  dress.  "  But  how  many 
mothers  there  are  who  will  want  to  thank  you,  when 
this  terrible  thing  is  over  and  they  learn  about  you !  " 

Mr.  Travers  had  been  eying  Sara  Lee. 

"Didn't  use  you  up,  did  it?"  he  asked.  "You're 
not  looking  quite  fit." 

Sara  Lee  was  very  pale  just  then.  In  a  moment  she 
would  know. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    301 

"  I'm  quite  well,"  she  said.  "I  —  do  you  hear  from 
Mrs.  Cameron?  " 

"  Frequently.  She  has  worked  hard,  but  she  is  not 
young."  It  was  Mrs.  Travers  who  spoke.  "  She's 
afraid  of  the  winter  there.  I  rather  think,  since  you 
want  to  go  back,  that  she  will  be  glad  to  turn  your  do- 
main over  to  you  for  a  time." 

"  Then  —  the  little  house  is  still  there  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  yes!  A  very  famous  little  house,  indeed. 
But  it  is  always  known  as  your  house.  She  has  felt 
like  a  temporary  chatelaine.  She  always  thought  you 
would  come  back." 

Tea  had  come,  as  before.  The  momentary  stir 
gave  her  a  chance  to  brace  herself.  Mr.  Travers 
brought  her  cup  to  her  and  smiled  gently  down  at  her. 

"  We  have  a  plan  to  talk  over,"  he  said,  "  when 
you  have  had  your  tea.  I  hope  you  will  agree  to  it." 

He  went  back  to  the  hearthrug. 

"  When  I  was  there  before,"  Sara  Lee  said,  trying 
to  hold  her  cup  steady,  "  there  was  a  young  Belgian 
officer  who  was  very  kind  to  me.  Indeed,  all  the  credit 
for  what  I  did  belongs  to  him.  And  since  I  went  home 
I  haven't  heard " 

Her  voice  broke  suddenly.  Mr.  Travers  glanced  at 
his  wife.  Not  for  nothing  had  Mrs.  Cameron  written 
her  long  letters  to  these  old  friends,  in  the  quiet  sum- 
mer afternoons  when  the  sun  shone  down  on  the  life- 
less street  before  the  little  house. 

"I'm  afraid  we  have  bad  news  for  you."  Mrs. 
Travers  put  down  her  untasted  tea.  "  Or  rather,  we 


302     THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

have  no  news.  Of  course,"  she  added,  seeing  Sara 
Lee's  eyes,  "  in  this  war  no  news  may  be  the  best  — 
that  is,  he  may  be  a  prisoner." 

"  That,"  Sara  Lee  heard  herself  say,  "  is  impossible. 
"If  they  captured  him  they  would  shoot  him." 

Mrs.  Travers  nodded  silently.  They  knew  Henri's 
business,  too,  by  that  time,  and  that  there  was  no  hope 
for  a  captured  spy. 

"And  — Jean?" 

They  did  not  know  of  Jean;  so  she  told  them,  still 
in  that  far-away  voice.  And  at  last  Mrs.  Travers 
brought  an  early  letter  of  Mrs.  Cameron's  and  read  a 
part  of  it  aloud. 

"  He  seems  to  have  been  delirious,"  she  read,  hold- 
ing her  reading  glasses  to  her  eyes.  "  A  friend  of  his, 
very  devoted  to  him,  was  missing,  and  he  learned  this 
somehow. 

"  He  escaped  from  the  hospital  and  got  away  in  an 
ambulance.  He  came  straight  here  and  wakened  us. 
There  had  been  a  wounded  man  in  the  machine,  and  he 
left  him  on  our  doorstep.  When  I  got  to  the  door  the 
car  was  going  wildly  toward  the  Front,  with  both  lamps 
lighted.  We  did  not  understand  then,  of  course,  and 
no  one  thought  of  following  it.  The  ambulance  was 
found  smashed  by  a  shell  the  next  morning,  and  at 
first  we  thought  that  he  had  been  in  it.  But  there  was 
no  sign  that  he  had  been,  and  that  night  one  of  the  men 
from  the  trenches  insisted  that  he  had  climbed  out  of 
a  firing  trench  where  the  soldier  stood,  and  had  gone 
forward,  bareheaded,  toward  the  German  lines. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     303 

"  I  am  afraid  it  was  the  end.  The  men,  however, 
who  all  loved  him,  do  not  think  so.  It  seems  that  he 
has  done  miracles  again  and  again.  I  understand  that 
along  the  whole  Belgian  line  they  watch  for  him  at 
night.  The  other  night  a  German  on  reconnoissance 
got  very  close  to  our  wire,  and  was  greeted  not  by  shots 
but  by  a  wild  hurrah.  He  was  almost  paralyzed  with 
surprise.  They  brought  him  here  on  the  way  back  to 
the  prison  camp,  and  he  still  looked  dazed." 

Sara  Lee  sat  with  her  hands  clenched.  Mrs.  Trav- 
ers  folded  the  letter  and  put  it  back  into  its  envelope. 

"  How  long  ago  was  that  ? "  Sara  Lee  asked  in  a 
low  tone.  "  Because,  if  he  was  coming  back  al 
all " 

"  Four  months." 

Suddenly  Sara  Lee  stood  up. 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  she  said  with  a  dead- 
white  face,  "  that  I  am  responsible.  He  cared  for  me ; 
and  I  was  in  love  with  him  too.  Only  I  didn't  know 
it  then.  I  let  him  bring  me  to  England,  because  — 
I  suppose  it  was  because  I  loved  him.  I  didn't  think 
then  that  it  was  that.  I  was  engaged  to  a  man  at 
home." 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Mr.  Travers.  "  My  dear  child, 
nothing  can  be  your  fault." 

"  He  came  with  me,  and  the  Germans  got  through. 
He  had  had  word,  but " 

"  Have  you  your  salts?  "  Mr.  Travers  asked  quietly 
of  his  wife. 

"  I'm  not  fainting.     I'm  only  utterly  wretched." 


304    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

The  Traverses  looked  at  each  other.  They  were 
English.  They  had  taken  their  own  great  loss  quietly, 
because  it  was  an  individual  grief  and  must  not  be  in- 
truded on  the  sorrow  of  a  nation.  But  they  found  this 
white-faced  girl  infinitely  appealing,  a  small  and  fragile 
figure,  to  whose  grief  must  be  added,  without  any  fault 
of  hers,  a  bitter  and  lasting  remorse. 

Sara  Lee  stood  up  and  tried  to  smile. 

*'  Please  don't  worry  about  me,"  she  said.  "  I  need 
something  to  do,  that's  all.  You  see,  I've  been  worry- 
ing for  so  long.  If  I  can  get  to  work  and  try  to  make 
up  I'll  not  be  so  hopeless.  But  I  am  not  quite  hopeless, 
either,"  she  added  hastily.  It  was  as  though  by  the 
very  word  she  had  consigned  Henri  to  death.  "  You 
see,  I  am  like  the  men ;  I  won't  give  him  up.  And  per- 
haps some  night  he  will  come  across  from  the  other 
side,  out  of  the  dark." 

Mr.  Travers  took  her  back  to  the  hotel.  When  he 
returned  from  paying  off  the  taxi  he  found  her  looking 
across  at  the  square. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  she  asked  him,  "  the  time  when 
the  little  donkey  was  hurt  over  there  ?  " 

"  I  shall  never  forget  it." 

"  And  the  young  officer  who  ran  out  when  I  did,  and 
shot  the  poor  thing  ?  " 

Mr.  Travers  remembered. 

"  That  was  he  —  the  man  we  have  been  speaking 
of." 

For  the  first  time  that  day  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    305 

Sara  Lee,  at  twenty,  was  already  living  in  her  mem- 
ories. 

So  again  the  lights  went  down  in  front,  and  the  Dack 
drop  became  but  a  veil,  and  invisible.  And  to  Sara 
Lee  there  came  back  again  some  of  the  characters  of 
the  early  wise  en  scene  —  marching  men.  forage 
wagons,  squadrons  of  French  cavalry  escorting  various 
staffs,  commandeered  farm  horses  with  shaggy  fetlocks 
fastened  in  rope  corrals,  artillery  rumbling  along  rutted 
roads  which  shook  the  gunners  almost  off  the  limbers. 

Nothing  was  changed  —  and  everything  There 
was  no  Rene  to  smile  his  adoring  smile,  but  Marie  came 
out,  sobbing  and  laughing,  and  threw  herself  into  the 
girl's  arms.  The  little  house  waf  the  same,  save  for 
a  hole  in  the  kitchen  wall.  There  wdfe  the  great  piles 
of  white  bowls  and  the  shining  kettles.  There  was  the 
corner  of  her  room,  patched  by  Rene's  hands,  now  so 
long  quiet.  A  few  more  shell  holes  in  the  street,  many 
more  little  crosses  in  the  field  near  the  poplar  trees, 
more  Allied  aeroplanes  in  the  air  —  that  was  all  that 
was  changed. 

But  to  Sara  Lee  everything  was  changed,  for  all  that. 
The  little  house  was  grave  and  still,  like  a  house  of  the 
dead.  Once  it  had  echoed  to  young  laughter,  had  re- 
sounded to  the  noise  and  excitement  of  Henri's  every 
entrance.  Even  when  he  was  not  there  it  was  as 
though  it  but  waited  for  him  to  stir  it  into  life,  and 
small  echoes  of  his  gayety  had  seemed  to  cling  to  its 
eld  walls. 


306    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

Sara  Lee  stood  on  the  doorstep  and  looked  within. 
She  had  come  back.  Here  she  would  work  and  wait, 
and  if  in  the  goodness  of  providence  he  should  come 
back,  here  he  would  find  her,  all  the  empty  months 
gone  and  forgotten.  If  he  did  not 

"  I  shall  still  be  calling  you,  and  waiting,"  he  had 
written.  She,  too,  would  call  and  wait,  and  if  not 
here,  then  surely  in  the  fullness  of  time  which  is  eter- 
nity the  call  would  be  answered. 

In  October  Sara  Lee  took  charge  again  of  the  little 
house.  Mrs.  Cameron  went  back  to  England,  but  not 
until  the  Traverses'  plan  had  been  revealed.  They 
would  support  the  little  house,  as  a  memorial  to  the  son 
who  had  died.  It  was,  Mrs.  Travers  wrote,  the  finest 
tribute  they  could  offer  to  his  memory,  that  night  after 
night  tired  and  ill  and  wounded  men  might  find  sanctu- 
ary, even  for  a  little  time,  under  her  care. 

Luxuries  began  to  come  across  the  channel,  food  and 
dressings  and  tobacco.  Knitted  things,  too;  for  an- 
other winter  was  coming,  and  already  the  frost  lay 
white  on  the  fields  in  the  mornings.  The  little  house 
took  on  a  new  air  of  prosperity.  There  were  days 
when  it  seemed  almost  swaggering  with  opulence. 

It  had  need  of  everything,  however.  With  the  pros- 
pect of  a  second  winter,  when  an  advance  was  impossi- 
ble, the  Germans  took  to  hammering  again.  Bombard- 
ment was  incessant.  The  little  village  was  again  under 
suspicion,  and  there  came  days  of  terror  when  it  seemed 
as  though  even  the  fallen  masonry  must  be  reduced  to 
powder.  The  church  went  entirely. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    307 

By  December  Sara  Lee  had  ceased  to  take  refuge 
during  the  bombardments.  The  fatalism  of  the  Front 
had  got  her.  She  would  die  or  live  according  to  the 
great  plan,  and  nothing  could  change  that.  She  did 
not  greatly  care  which,  except  for  her  work,  and  even 
that  she  felt  could  be  carried  on  by  another  as  well. 

There  was  no  news  of  Henri,  but  once  the  King's 
equerry,  going  by,  had  stopped  to  see  her  and  had  told 
her  the  story. 

"  He  was  ill,  undoubtedly,"  he  said.  "  Even  when 
he  went  to  London  he  was  ill,  and  not  responsible. 
The  King  understands  that.  He  was  a  brave  boy, 
mademoiselle." 

But  the  last  element  of  hope  seemed  to  go  with  that 
verification  of  his  illness.  He  was  delirious,  and  he 
had  gone  in  that  condition  into  the  filthy  chill  waters  of 
the  inundation.  Well  and  sane  there  had  been  a 
chance,  but  plunging  wild-eyed  and  reckless,  into  that 
hell  across,  there  was  none. 

She  did  her  best  in  the  evenings  to  be  cheerful,  to 
take  the  place,  in  her  small  and  serious  fashion,  of 
Henri's  old  gayety.  But  the  soldiers  whispered 
among  themselves  that  mademoiselle  was  in  grief,  as 
they  were,  for  the  blithe  young  soldier  who  was  gone. 

What  hope  Sara  Lee  had  had  died  almost  entirely 
early  in  December.  On  the  evening  of  a  day  when  a 
steady  rain  had  turned  the  roads  into  slimy  pitfalls,  and 
the  ditches  to  canals,  there  came,  brought  by  a  Belgian 
corporal,  the  man  who  swore  that  Henri  had  passed 

*  in  his  trench  while  the  others  slept,  had  shoved 


308    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

him  aside,  which  was  unlike  his  usual  courtesy,  and 
had  climbed  out  over  the  top. 

To  Sara  Lee  this  Hutin  told  his  story.  A  short  man 
with  a  red  beard  and  a  kindly  smile  that  revealed  teeth 
almost  destroyed  from  neglect,  he  was  at  first  diffident 
in  the  extreme. 

*'  It  was  the  captain,  mademoiselle,"  he  asserted. 
"  I  know  him  well.  He  has  often  gone  on  his  errands 
from  near  my  post.  I  am  " —  he  smiled  — "  I  am 
usually  in  the  front  line." 

"What  did  he  do?" 

"  He  had  no  cap,  mademoiselle.  I  thought  that  was 
odd.  And  as  you  know  —  he  does  not  wear  his  own 
uniform  on  such  occasions.  But  he  wore  his  own  uni- 
form, so  that  at  first  I  did  not  know  what  he  intended." 

"  Later  on,"  she  asked,  "  you  —  did  you  hear  any- 
thing?" 

"  The  usual  sniping,  mademoiselle.     Nothing  more." 

"  He  went  through  the  inundation  ?  " 

"  How  else  could  he  go  ?  Through  the  wire  first, 
it  the  barrier,  where  there  is  an  opening,  if  one  knows 
the  way.  I  saw  him  beyond  it,  by  the  light  of  a  fusee. 
There  is  a  road  there,  or  what  was  once  a  road.  He 
stood  there.  Then  the  lights  went  out." 


XXX 

ON  a  wild  night  in  January  Sara  Lee  inaugurated 
a  new  branch  of  service.     There  had  been  a  delay 
in  sending  up  to  the  Front  the  men  who  had  been 
on  rest,  and  an  incessant  bombardment  held  the  troops 
prisoners  in  their  trenches. 

A  field  kitchen  had  been  destroyed.  The  men  \vere 
hungry,  disheartened,  wet  through.  They  needed  her, 
she  felt.  Even  the  little  she  could  do  would  help.  All 
Tlay  she  had  made  soup,  and  at  evening  Marie  led  from 
its  dilapidated  stable  the  little  horse  that  Henri  had 
once  brought  up,  trundling  its  cart  behind  it.  The 
boiler  of  the  cart  was  scoured,  a  fire  lighted  in  the  fire 
box.  Marie,  a  country  girl,  harnessed  the  shaggy  little 
animal,  but  with  tears  of  terror. 

"  You  will  be  killed,  mademoiselle,"  she  protested, 
weeping. 

"  But  I  have  gone  before.  Don't  you  remember  the 
man  whose  wife  was  English,  aiid  how  I  wrote  a  letter 
for  him  before  he  died?  " 

"  What  will  become  of  the  house  if  you  are  killed?  " 

"  Dear  Marie,"  said  Sara  Lee,  "  that  is  all  arranged 
for.  You  will  send  to  Poperinghe  for  your  aunt,  and 
she  will  come  until  Mrs.  Cameron  or  some  one  else  can 
come  from  England.  And  you  will  stay  on.  Will  you 
promise  that  ?  " 

309 


3io    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

Marie  promised  in  a  loud  wail. 

"  Of  course  I  shall  come  back,"  Sara  Lee  said,  stir- 
ring her  soup  preparatory  to  pouring  it  out.  "  I  shall 
be  very  careful." 

"  You  will  not  come  back,  mademoiselle.  You  do 
not  care  to  live,  and  to  such " 

"  Those  are  the  ones  who  live  on,"  said  Sara  Lee 
gravely,  and  poured  out  her  soup. 

She  went  quite  alone.  There  was  a  great  deal  of 
noise,  but  no  shells  fell  near  her.  She  led  the  little 
Aorse  by  its  head,  and  its  presence  gave  her  comfort. 
It  had  a  sense  that  she  had  not,  too,  for  it  kept  her  on 
the  road. 

In  those  still  early  days  the  Belgian  trenches  were 
quite  accessible  from  the  rear.  There  were  no  long 
tunneled  ways  to  traverse  to  reach  them.  One  went 
along  through  the  darkness  until  the  sound  of  men's 
voices,  the  glare  of  charcoal  in  a  busket  bored  with 
holes,  the  flicker  of  a  match,  told  of  the  buried  army 
almost  underfoot  or  huddled  in  its  flimsy  shelters  be- 
hind the  railway  embankment. 

Beyond  the  lines  a  sentry  stopped  her,  hailing  her 
sharply. 

"  Qui  vive?  " 

"  It  is  I,"  she  called  through  the  rain.  "  I  have 
brought  some  chocolate  and  some  soup." 

He  lowered  his  bayonet. 

"  Pass,  mademoiselle." 

She  went  on,  the  rumbling  of  her  little  cart  dead- 
ened by  the  Belgian  guns. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     311 

Through  the  near-by  trenches  that  night  went  the 
word  that  near  the  Repose  of  the  Angels  —  which  was 
but  a  hole  in  the  ground  and  scarcely  reposeful  —  there 
was  to  be  had  hot  soup  and  chocolate  and  cigarettes. 
A  dozen  or  so  at  a  time,  the  men  were  allowed  to  come. 
Officers  brought  their  great  capes  to  keep  the  girl  dry. 
Boards  appeared  as  if  by  magic  for  her  to  stand  on. 
The  rain  and  the  bombardment  had  both  ceased,  and  a 
full  moon  made  the  lagoon  across  the  embankment  into 
a  silver  lake. 

When  the  last  soup  had  been  dipped  from  the  tall 
iboiler,  when  the  final  drops  of  chocolate  had  oozed 
from  the  faucet,  Sara  Lee  turned  and  went  back  to  the 
little  house  again.  But  before  she  went  she  stood  a 
moment  staring  across  toward  that  land  of  the  shadow 
on  the  other  side,  where  Henri  had  gone  and  had  not 
returned. 

Once,  when  the  King  had  decorated  her,  she  had 
wished  that,  wherever  Uncle  James  might  be,  on  the 
other  side,  he  could  see  what  was  happening.  And  now 
she  wondered  if  Henri  could  know  that  she  had  come 
back,  and  was  again  looking  after  his  men  while 
she  waited  for  that  reunion  he  had  so  firmly  be- 
lieved in. 

Then  she  led  the  little  horse  back  along  the  road. 

At  the  poplar  trees  she  turned  and  looked  behind, 
toward  the  trenches.  The  grove  was  but  a  skeleton 
now,  a  strange  and  jagged  thing  of  twisted  branches, 
as  though  it  had  died  in  agony.  She  stood  there  while 
the  pony  nuzzled  her  gently.  If  she  called,  would  he 


312 


come?  But,  then,  all  of  life  was  one  call  now,  for  her. 
She  went  on  slowly. 

After  that  it  was  not  unusual  for  her  to  go  to  the 
trenches,  on  such  nights  as  no  men  could  come  to  the 
little  house.  Always  she  was  joyously  welcomed,  and 
always  on  her  way  back  she  turned  to  send  from  the 
pop'mr  trees  that  inarticulate  aching  call  that  she  had 
come  somehow  to  believe  in. 

January,  wet  and  raw,  went  by;  February,  colder, 
with  snow,  was  half  over.  The  men  had  ceased  to 
watch  for  Henri  over  the  parapet,  and  his  brave  deeds 
had  become  fireside  tales,  to  be  told  at  home,  if  evei 
there  were  to  be  homes  again  for  them. 

Then  one  night  Henri  came  back  —  came  as  he  had 
gone,  out  of  the  shadows  that  had  swallowed  him  up,: 
came  without  so  much  as  the  sound  of  a  sniper's  rifle 
to  herald  him.  A  strange,  thin  Henri,  close  to  starva- 
tion, dripping  water  over  everything  from  a  German 
uniform,  and  very  close  indeed  to  death  before  he  called 
out. 

There  was  wild  excitement  indeed.  Bearded  private 
soldiers,  forgetting  that  name  and  rank  of  his  which 
must  not  be  told,  patted  his  thin  shoulders.  Officers 
who  had  lived  through  such  horrors  as  also  may  not  be 
told,  crowded  about  him  and  shook  hands  with  him, 
and  with  each  other. 

It  was  as  though  from  the  graveyard  back  in  the 
fields  had  come,  alive  and  smiling,  some  dearly  be- 
loved friend. 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     313 

He  would  have  told  the  story,  but  he  was  wet  and 
weary. 

"  That  can  wait,"  they  said,  and  led  him,  a  motley 
band  of  officers  and  men  intermixed,  for  once  forget- 
ting all  decorum,  toward  the  village.  They  overtook 
the  lines  of  men  who  had  left  the  trenches  and  were 
moving  with  their  slow  and  weary  gait  up  the  road. 
The  news  spread  through  the  column.  There  were 
muffled  cheers.  Figures  stepped  out  of  the  darkness 
with  hands  out.  Henri  clasped  as  many  as  he  could. 

When  with  his  escort  he  had  passed  the  men  they 
fell,  almost  without  orders,  into  columns  of  four,  and 
swung  in  behind  him.  There  was  no  band,  but  from  a 
thousand  throats,  yet  cautiously  until  they  passed  the 
joplar  trees,  there  gradually  swelled  and  grew  a 
marching  song. 

Behind  Henri  a  strange  guard  of  honor  —  muddy, 
tired,  torn,  even  wounded  —  they  marched  and  sang : 

Trou  la  la,  ga  ne  va  giiere; 
Trou  Id  Id,  qe  ne  va  pas. 

Sara  Lee,  listening  for  that  first  shuffle  of  many  feet 
that  sounded  so  like  the  wind  in  the  trees  or  water  over 
the  pebbles  of  a  brook,  paused  in  her  work  and  lifted 
her  head.  The  rhythm  of  marching  feet  came  through 
the  wooden  shutters.  The  very  building  seemed  to 
vibi  <tte  with  it.  And  there  was  a  growling  sound  with  it 
soon  she  knew  to  be  the  deep  voices  of  singing  men. 


3i4    THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

She  went  to  the  door  and  stood  there,  looking  down 
the  street  Behind  her  was  the  warm  glow  of  the 
lamp,  all  the  snug  invitation  of  the  little  house. 

A  group  of  soldiers  had  paused  in  front  of  the  door- 
way, and  from  them  one  emerged  —  tall,  white,  in- 
finitely weary  —  and  looked  up  at  her  with  unbelieving 
eyes. 

After  all,  there  are  no  words  for  such  meetings- 
Henri  took  her  hand,  still  with  that  sense  of  unreality, 
and  bent  over  it.  And  Sara  Lee  touched  his  head  as 
he  stooped,  because  she  had  called  for  so  long,  and 
only  now  he  had  come. 

"  So  you  have  come  back ! "  she  said  in  what  she 
hoped  was  a  composed  tone  —  because  a  great  many 
people  were  listening.  He  raised  his  head  then  and 
yt>oked  at  her. 

"  It  is  you  who  have  come  back,  mademoiselle." 

There  was  gayety  in  the  little  house  that  night. 
Every  candle  was  lighted.  They  were  stuck  in  rows 
on  mantel-shelves.  They  blazed  —  and  melted  into 
strange  arcs  —  above  the  kitchen  stove.  There  were 
cigarettes  for  everybody,  and  food ;  and  a  dry  uniform, 
rather  small,  for  Henri.  Marie  wept  over  her  soup, 
and  ran  every  few  moments  to  the  door  to  see  if  he 
was  still  there.  She  had  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks 
when  he  came  in,  and  showed  signs,  every  now  and 
then,  of  doing  it  again. 

Sara  Lee  did  her  bandaging  as  usual,  but  with  shin- 
ing eyes.  And  soon  after  Henri's  arrival  a  dispatch 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE     315 

rider  set  off  post  haste  with  certain  papers  and  maps, 
hurriedly  written  and  drawn.  Henri  had  not  only  re- 
turned, he  had  brought  back  information  of  great  value 
to  all  the  Allied  armies. 

So  Sara  Lee  bandaged,  and  in  the  little  room  across 
the  way,  where  no  longer  Harvey's  photograph  sat  on 
the  mantel,  Henri  told  his  story  to  the  officers  —  of 
his  imprisonment  in  the  German  prison  at  Crefeld;  of 
his  finding  Jean  there,  weeks  later  when  he  was  con- 
valescing from  typhoid ;  of  their  escape  and  long  wan- 
dering; of  Jean's  getting  into  Holland,  whence  he 
would  return  by  way  of  England.  Of  his  own  busi- 
ness, of  what  he  had  done  behind  the  lines  after  Jean 
had  gone,  he  said  nothing.  But  his  listeners  knew  and 
understood. 

But  his  dispatches  off,  his  story  briefly  told,  Henri 
wandered  out  among  the  men  again.  He  was  very 
happy.  He  had  never  thought  to  be  so  happy.  He 
felt  the  touch  on  his  sleeves  of  hard  brown,  not  over- 
clean  hands,  infinitely  tender  and  caressing;  and  over 
there,  as  though  she  had  never  gone,  was  Sara  Lee, 
slightly  flushed  and  very  radiant. 

And  as  though  he  also  had  never  gone  away,  Henri 
pushed  into  the  salle  a  manger  and  stood  before  her 
smiling. 

"  You  bandage  well,  mademoiselle,"  he  said  gayly. 
"But  I?  I  bandage  better!  See  now,  a  turn  here, 
and  it  is  done !  Does  it  hurt,  Paul  ?  " 

The  man  in  the  dressing  chair  squirmed  and  grinned 
sheepishly. 


316     THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE 

"  The  iodine,"  he  explained.     "  It  is  painful." 

"  Then  I  shall  ask  you  a  question,  and  you  will  for- 
get the  iodine.  Why  is  a  dead  German  like  the  tail  of 
a  pig?" 

Paul  failed.  The  room  failed.  Even  Colonel 
Lilias  confessed  himself  at  fault. 

"  Because  it  is  the  end  of  the  swine,"  explained 
Henri,  and  looked  about  him  triumphantly.  A  gust  of 
laughter  spread  through  the  room  and  even  to  the 
kitchen.  A  door  banged.  Henri  upset  a  chair. 
There  was  noise  again,  and  gayety  in  the  little  house  of 
mercy.  And  much  happiness. 

And  there  I  think  we  may  leave  them  all  —  Henri 
and  Sara  Lee ;  and  Jean  of  the  one  eye  and  the  faithful 
heart;  and  Marie,  with  her  kettles;  and  even  Rene, 
who  still  in  some  strange  way  belonged  to  the  little 
house,  as  though  it  were  something  too  precious  to 
abandon. 

The  amazing  interlude  had  become  the  play  itself. 
Never  again  for  Sara  Lee  would  the  lights  go  up  in 
front,  and  Henri  with  his  adoring  eyes  and  open  arms 
fade  into  the  shadows. 

The  drama  of  the  war  plays  on.  The  Great  Play- 
wright sees  fit,  now  and  then,  to  take  away  some  well- 
beloved  players.  New  faces  appear  and  disappear. 
The  music  is  the  thunder  of  many  guns.  Henri  still 
plays  his  big  part,  Sara  Lee  her  little  one.  Yet  who 
shall  say,  in  the  end,  which  one  has  done  the  better? 
There  are  new  and  ever  new  standards,  but  love  re- 
mains the  chief.  And  love  is  Sara  Lee's  one  quality  — • 


THE  AMAZING  INTERLUDE    317 

love  of  her  kind,  of  tired  men  and  weary,  the  love  that 
shall  one  day  knit  this  broken  world  together.  And 
love  of  one  man. 

On  weary  nights,  when  Henri  is  again  IcTst  in  the 
shadows,  Sara  Lee,  her  work  done,  the  men  gone,  sits 
in  her  little  house  of  mercy  and  waits.  The  stars  on 
clear  evenings  shine  down  on  the  roofless  buildings,  on 
the  rubbish  that  was  once  the  mill,  on  the  ruined  poplar 
trees,  and  on  the  small  acre  of  peace  where  tiny  crosses 
mark  the  long  sleep  of  weary  soldiers. 

And  sometimes,  though  she  knows  it  now  by  heart, 
she  reads  aloud  that  letter  of  Henri's  to  her.  It  com- 
forts her.  It  is  a  promise. 

"If  that  is  to  be,  then  think  of  me,  somewhere,  per- 
haps with  Rene  by  my  side,  since  he.  too,  loved  you. 
And  I  shall  still  be  calling  you,  and  waiting.  Perhaps, 
even  beyond  the  stars,  they  have  need  of  a  little  house 
of  mercy.  And  God  knows,  wherever  I  am,  I  shall 
have  need  of  you." 


(THE  END) 


Ill 


THE  STREET  OF  SEVEN  STARS 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

CHAPTER  I 

E  old  stucco  house  sat  back  in  a  garden,  or 
A  what  must  once  have  been  a  garden,  when 
that  part  of  the  Austrian  city  had  been  a  royal 
game  preserve.  Tradition  had  it  that  the  Em- 
press Maria  Theresa  had  used  the  building  as  a 
aunt  ing-lodge,  and  undoubtedly  there  was  some- 
thing royal  in  the  proportions  of  the  salon.  With 
all  the  candles  lighted  in  the  great  glass  chande- 
lier, and  no  sidelights,  so  that  the  broken  panel- 
ing was  mercifully  obscured  by  gloom,  it  was 
easy  to  believe  that  the  great  empress  herself 
had  sat  in  one  of  the  tall  old  chairs  and  listened 
to  anecdotes  of  questionable  character;  even, 
if  tradition  may  be  believed,  related  not  a  few 
herself. 

The  chandelier  was  not  lighted  on  this  rainy 
November  night.  Outside  in  the  garden  the  trees 
creaked  and  bent  before  the  wind,  and  the  heavy 
barred  gate,  left  open  by  the  last  comer,  a  piano 
student  named  Scatchett  and  dubbed  "Scatch" 
—  the  gate  slammed  to  and  fro  monotonously, 
giving  now  and  then  just  enough  pause  for  a  hope 

I 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

» 

that  it  had  latched  itself,  a  hope  that  was  always 
destroyed  by  the  next  gust. 

One  candle  burned  in  the  salon.  Originally 
lighted  for  the  purpose  of  enabling  Miss  Scatchett 
to  locate  the  score  of  a  Tschaikowsky  concerto,  it 
had  been  moved  to  the  small  center  table,  and 
had  served  to  give  light  if  not  festivity  to  the 
afternoon  coffee  and  cakes.  It  still  burned,  a 
gnarled  and  stubby  fragment,  in  its  china  holder; 
round  it  the  disorder  of  the  recent  refreshment, 
three  empty  cups,  a  half  of  a  small  cake,  a  crum- 
pled napkin  or  two,  —  there  were  never  enough  to 
go  round, —  and  on  the  floor  the  score  of  the  con- 
certo, clearly  abandoned  for  the  things  of  the  flesh. 

The  room  was  cold.  The  long  casement  win- 
dows creaked  in  time  with  the  slamming  of  the 
gate  and  the  candle  flickered  in  response  to  a 
draft  under  the  doors.  The  concerto  flapped  and 
slid  along  the  uneven  old  floor.  At  the  sound  a 
girl  in  a  black  dress,  who  had  been  huddled  near 
the  tile  stove,  rose  impatiently  and  picked  it  up. 
There  was  no  impatience,  however,  in  the  way 
she  handled  the  loose  sheets.  She  put  them  to- 
gether carefully,  almost  tenderly,  and  placed 
them  on  the  top  of  the  grand  piano,  anchoring 
them  against  the  draft  with  a  china  dog  from  the 
stand. 

The  room  was  very  bare  —  a  long  mirror  be- 
tween two  of  the  windows,  half  a  dozen  chairs,  a 

4 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

stand  or  two,  and  in  a  corner  the  grand  piano. 
There  were  no  rugs  —  the  bare  floor  stretched 
bleakly  into  dim  corners  and  was  lost.  The  crys- 
tal pendants  of  the  great  chandelier  looked  like 
stalactites  in  a  cave.  The  girl  touched  the  piano 
keys;  they  were  ice  under  her  fingers. 

In  a  sort  of  desperation  she  drew  a  chair  under- 
neath the  chandelier,  and  armed  with  a  handful 
of  matches  proceeded  to  the  unheard-of  extrava- 
gance of  lighting  it,  not  here  and  there,  but 
throughout  as  high  as  she  could  reach,  standing 
perilously  on  her  tiptoes  on  the  chair. 

The  resulting  illumination  revealed  a  number 
of  things :  It  showed  that  the  girl  was  young  and 
comely  and  that  she  had  been  crying;  it  revealed 
the  fact  that  the  coal-pail  was  empty  and  the 
stove  almost  so;  it  let  the  initiated  into  the  se- 
cret that  the  blackish  fluid  in  the  cups  had  been 
made  with  coffee  extract*  that  had  been  made  of 
Heaven  knows  what;  and  it  revealed  in  the  cav- 
ernous corner  near  the  door  a  number  of  trunks. 
The  girl,  having  lighted  all  the  candles,  stood 
on  the  chair  and  looked  at  the  trunks.  She  was 
very  young,  very  tragic,  very  feminine.  A  door 
slammed  down  the  hall  and  she  stopped  crying 
instantly.  Diving  into  one  of  those  receptacles 
that  are  a  part  of  the  mystery  of  the  sex,  she 
rubbed  a  chamois  skin  over  her  nose  and  her  red- 
dened eyelids. 

5 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  situation  was  a  difficult  one,  but  hardly, 
except  to  Harmony  Wells,  a  tragedy.  Few  of  us 
are  so  constructed  that  the  Suite  "Arlesienne" 
will  serve  as  a  luncheon,  or  a  faulty  fingering  of 
the  Waldweben  from  "Siegfried"  will  keep  us 
awake  at  night.  Harmony  had  lain  awake  more 
than  once  over  some  crime  against  her  namesake, 
had  paid  penances  of  early  rising  and  two  hours 
of  scales  before  breakfast,  working  with  stiffened 
fingers  in  her  cold  little  room  where  there  was  no 
room  for  a  stove,  and  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed 
in  a  faded  kimono  where  once  pink  butterflies 
sported  in  a  once  blue-silk  garden.  Then  coffee, 
rolls,  and  honey,  and  back  again  to  work,  with 
little  Scatchett  at  the  piano  in  the  salon  beyond 
the  partition,  wearing  a  sweater  and  fingerless 
gloves  and  holding  a  hot-water  bottle  on  her 
knees.  Three  rooms  beyond,  down  the  stone  hall, 
the  Big  Soprano,  doing  Madama  Butterfly  in  bad 
German,  helped  to  make  an  encircling  wall  of 
sound  in  the  center  of  which  one  might  practice 
peacefully. 

Only  the  Portier  objected.  Morning  after 
morning,  crawling  out  at  dawn  from  under  his 
featherbed  in  the  lodge  below,  he  opened  his  door 
and  listened  to  Harmony  doing  penance  above; 
and  morning  after  morning  he  shook  his  fist  up 
the  stone  staircase. 

"Gott  im  Himmel!"  he  would  say  to  his  wife,. 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

fumbling  with  the  knot  of  his  mustache  bandage, 
"  what  a  people,  these  Americans !  So  much  noise 
and  no  music!" 

"And  mad!"  grumbled  his  wife.  "All  the  day 
coal,  coal  to  heat;  and  at  night  the  windows  open! 
Karl  the  milkboy  has  seen  it." 

And  now  the  little  colony  was  breaking  up. 
The  Big  Soprano  was  going  back  to  her  church, 
grand  opera  having  found  no  place  for  her.  Scatch 
was  returning  to  be  married,  her  heart  full,  in- 
deed, of  music,  but  her  head  much  occupied  with 
the  trousseau  in  her  trunks.  The  Harmar  sisters 
had  gone  two  weeks  before,  their  funds  having 
given  out.  Indeed,  funds  were  very  low  with  all 
of  them.  The  "  Bitte  zum  speisen"  of  the  little 
German  maid  often  called  them  to  nothing  more 
opulent  than  a  stew  cf  beef  and  carrots. 

Not  that  all  had  benn  sordid.  The  butter  had 
gone  for  opera  tickets,  and  never  was  butter  bet- 
ter spent.  And  there  had  been  gala  days  —  a 
fruitcake  from  Harmony's  mother,  a  venison 
steak  at  Christmas,  and  once  or  twice  on  birth- 
days real  American  ice  ci<°am  at  a  fabulous  price 
and  worth  it.  Harmony  hyd  bought  a  suit,  too,  a 
marvel  of  tailoring  and  cheapness,  and  a  willow 
plume  that  would  have  cos*  treble  its  price  in 
New  York.  Oh,  yes,  gala  day«>  indeed,  to  offset 
the  butter  and  the  rainy  winter  *»nd  the  faltering 
technic  and  the  anxiety  about  money.  For  that 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

they  all  had  always,  the  old  tragedy  of  the  Amer- 
ican music  student  abroad  —  the  expensive  les- 
sons, the  delays  in  getting  to  the  Master  himself, 
the  contention  against  German  greed  or  Austrian 
ivhim.  And  always  back  in  one's  mind  the  home 
people,  to  whom  one  dares  not  confess  that  aftei 
nine  months  of  waiting,  or  a  year,  one  has  seer 
the  Master  once  or  not  at  all. 

Or  —  and  one  of  the  Harmar  girls  had  carried 
back  this  sear  in  her  soul  —  to  go  back  rejected, 
as  one  of  the  unfit,  on  whom  even  the  under- 
masters  refuse  to  waste  time.  That  has  been, 
and  often.  Harmony  stood  on  her  chair  and 
looked  at  the  trunks.  The  Big  Soprano  was  call- 
ing  down  the  hall. 

"Scatch,"  she  was  shouting  briskly,  "where  is 
my  hairbrush?" 

A  wail  from  Scatch  from  behind  a  closed  door. 

"I  packed  it,  Heaven  knows  where!  Do  you 
need  it  really?  Have  n't  you  got  a  comb?" 

"As  soon  as  I  get  something  on  I'm  coming  to 
shake  you.  Half  the  teeth  are  out  of  my  comb. 
I  don't  believe  you  packed  it.  Look  under  the 
bed." 

Silence  for  a  moment,  while  Scatch  obeyed  for 
the  next  moment. 

"Here  it  is,"  she  called  joyously.  "And  here 
are  Harmony's  bedroom  slippers.  Oh,  Harry,  I 
found  your  slippers!" 

8 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  girl  got  down  off  the  chair  and  went  to  the 
door. 

"Thanks,  dear,"  she  said.  "I'm  coming  in  a 
minute." 

She  went  to  the  mirror,  which  had  reflected  the 
Empress  Maria  Theresa,  and  looked  at  her  eyes. 
They  were  still  red.  Perhaps  if  she  opened  the 
window  the  air  would  brighten  them. 

Armed  with  the  brush,  little  Scatchett  hurried 
to  the  Big  Soprano's  room.  She  flung  the  brush 
on  the  bed  and  closed  the  door.  She  held  her 
shabby  wrapper  about  her  and  listened  just  in- 
side the  door.  There  were  no  footsteps,  only  the 
banging  of  the  gate  in  the  wind.  She  turned  to 
the  Big  Soprano,  heating  a  curling  iron  in  the 
flame  of  a  candle,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Look!"  she  said.  "Under  my  bed!  Ten 
kronen!" 

Without  a  word  the  Big  Soprano  put  down  her 
curling-iron,  and  ponderously  getting  down  on 
her  knees,  candle  in  hand,  inspected  the  dusty 
floor  beneath  her  bed.  It  revealed  nothing  but  a 
cigarette,  on  which  she  pounced.  Still  squatting, 
.  she  lighted  the  cigarette  in  the  candle  flame  and 
sat  solemnly  puffing  it. 

"The  first  for  a  week,"  she  said.  "Pull  out  the 
wardrobe,  Scatch;  there  may  be  another  relic  oi 
my  prosperous  days." 

9 


But  little  Scatchett  was  not  interested  in  Aus- 
trian cigarettes  with  a  government  monopoly 
and  gilt  tips.  She  was  looking  at  the  ten-kronen 
piece. 

"Where  is  the  other?"  she  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"In  my  powder-box." 

Little  Scatchett  lifted  the  china  lid  and  dropped 
in  the  tiny  gold-piece. 

"Every  little  bit,"  she  said  flippantly,  but  still 
in  a  whisper,  "added  to  what  she's  got,  makes 
just  a  little  bit  more." 

"Have  you  thought  of  a  place  to  leave  it  for 
her?  If  Rosa  finds  it,  it's  good-bye.  Heaven 
knows  it  was  hard  enough  to  get  together,  with- 
out losing  it  now.  I'll  have  to  jump  overboard 
and  swim  ashore  at  New  York  —  I  have  n't  even 
a  dollar  for  tips." 

"  New  York ! "  said  little  Scatchett  with  her  eyes 
glowing.  "  If  Henry  meets  me  I  know  he  will — ' 

"Tut!"  The  Big  Soprano  got  up  cumbrously 
and  stood  looking  down.  "  You  and  your  Henry ! 
Scatchy,  child,  has  it  occurred  to  your  maudlin 
young  mind  that  money  is  n't  the  only  thing  Har- 
mony is  going  to  need?  She's  going  to  be  alone 
—  and  this  is  a  bad  town  to  be  alone  in.  And 
she  is  not  like  us.  You  have  your  Henry.  I  'm  a 
beefy  person  who  has  a  stomach,  and  I  'm  thank- 
ful for  it.  But  she  is  different  —  she 's  got  the 

10 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

thing  that  you  are  as  well  without,  the  thing  that 
my  lack  of  is  sending  me  back  to  fight  in  a  church 
choir  instead  of  grand  opera." 

Little  Scatchett  was  rather  puzzled. 

'Temperament?"  she  asked.  It  had  always 
been  accepted  in  the  little  colony  that  Harmony 
was  a  real  musician,  a  star  in  their  lesser  firma- 
ment. 

The  Big  Soprano  sniffed. 

"  If  you  like,"  she  said.  "  Soul  is  a  better  word. 
Only  the  rich  ought  to  have  souls,  Scatchy,  dear." 

This  was  over  the  younger  girl's  head,  and 
anyhow  Harmony  was  coming  down  the  hall. 

"I  thought,  under  her  pillow,"  she  whispered. 
" She '11  find  it—  " 

Harmony  came  in,  to  find  the  Big  Soprano 
heating  a  curler  in  the  flame  of  a  candle. 


CHAPTER  II 

HARMONY  found  the  little  hoard  under  her 
pillow  that  night  when,  having  seen  Scatch 
and  the  Big  Soprano  off  at  the  station,  she  had 
come  back  alone  to  the  apartment  on  the  Sieben- 
sternstrasse.  The  trunks  were  gone  now.  Only 
the  concerto  score  still  lay  on  the  piano,  where 
little  Scatchett,  mentally  on  the  dock  at  New 
York  with  Henry's  arms  about  her,  had  forgot- 
ten it.  The  candles  in  the  great  chandelier  had 
died  in  tears  of  paraffin  that  spattered  the  floor 
beneath.  One  or  two  of  the  sockets  were  still 
smoking,  and  the  sharp  odor  of  burning  wick- 
ends  filled  the  room. 

Harmony  had  come  through  the  garden 
quickly.  She  had  had  an  uneasy  sense  of  being 
followed,  and  the  garden,  with  its  moaning  trees 
and  slamming  gate  and  the  great  dark  house  in 
the  background,  was  a  forbidding  place  at  best. 
She  had  rung  the  bell  and  had  stood,  her  back 
against  the  door,  eyes  and  ears  strained  in  the 
darkness.  She  had  fancied  that  a  figure  had 
stopped  outside  the  gate  and  stood  looking  in, 
but  the  next  moment  the  gate  had  swung  to  and 
the  Portier  was  fumbling  at  the  lock  behind  her. 

12 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  Portier  had  put  on  his  trousers  over  his 
night  garments,  and  his  mustache  bandage  gave 
him  a  sinister  expression,  rather  augmented  when 
he  smiled  at  her.  The  Portier  liked  Harmony  in 
spite  of  the  early  morning  practicing;  she  looked 
like  a  singer  at  the  opera  for  whom  he  cherished 
a  hidden  attachment.  The  singer  had  never  seen 
him,  but  it  was  for  her  he  wore  the  mustache 
bandage.  Perhaps  some  day  —  hopefully !  One 
must  be  ready! 

The  Portier  gave  Harmony  a  tiny  candle 
and  Harmony  held  out  his  tip,  the  five  Hellers 
of  custom.  But  the  Portier  was  keen,  and 
Rosa  was  a  niece  of  his  wife  and  talked  more 
than  she  should.  He  refused  the  tip  with  a 
gesture. 

"Bitte,  Fraulein!"  he  said  through  the  band- 
age. "It  is  for  me  a  pleasure  to  admit  you. 
And  perhaps  if  the  Fraulein  is  cold,  a  basin  of 
soup." 

The  Portier  was  not  pleasant  to  the  eye. 
His  nightshirt  was  open  over  his  hairy  chest  and 
his  feet  were  bare  to  the  stone  floor.  But  to 
Harmony  that  lonely  night  he  was  beautiful. 
She  tried  to  speak  and  could  not  but  she  held 
out  her  hand  in  impulsive  gratitude,  and  the 
Portier  in  his  best  manner  bent  over  and  kissed 
it.  As  she  reached  the  curve  of  the  stone  stair- 
case, carrying  her  tiny  candle,  the  Portier  was 

13 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

following  her  with  his  eyes.  She  was  very  like 
the  girl  of  the  opera. 

The  clang  of  the  door  below  and  the  rattle 
of  the  chain  were  comforting  to  Harmony's 
ears.  From  the  safety  of  the  darkened  salon 
she  peered  out  into  the  garden  again,  but  no 
skulking  figure  detached  itself  from  the  shadows, 
and  the  gate  remained,  for  a  marvel,  closed. 

It  was  when  —  having  picked  up  her  violin 
in  a  very  passion  of  loneliness,  only  to  put  it 
down  when  she  found  that  the  familiar  sounds 
echoed  and  reechoed  sadly  through  the  silent 
rooms — it  was  when  she  was  ready  for  bed  that 
she  found  the  money  under  her  pillow,  and  a 
scrawl  from  Scatchy,  a  breathless,  apologetic 
scrawl,  little  Scatchett  having  adored  her  from 
afar,  as  the  plain  adore  the  beautiful,  the  me- 
diocre the  gifted :  — 

"DEAREST  HARRY  [here  a  large  blot,  Scatchy 
being  addicted  to  blots]:  I  am  honestly  fright- 
ened when  I  think  what  we  are  doing.  But, 
oh,  my  dear,  if  you  could  know  how  pleased 
we  are  with  ourselves  you'd  not  deny  us  this 
pleasure.  Harry,  you  have  it  —  the  real  thing, 
you  know,  whatever  it  is  —  and  I  have  n't. 
None  of  the  rest  of  us  had.  And  you  must 
stay.  To  go  now,  just  when  lessons  would 
mean  everything  —  well,  you  must  not  think 

14 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

of  it.  We  have  scads  to  take  us  home,  more 
than  we  need,  both  of  us,  or  at  least  —  well, 
I  'm  lying,  and  you  know  it.  But  we  have 
enough,  by  being  careful,  and  we  want  you  to 
have  this.  It  isn't  much,  but  it  may  help. 
Ten  Kronen  of  it  I  found  to-night  under  my 
bed,  and  it  may  be  yours  anyhow. 

"Sadie  [Sadie  was  the  Big  Soprano]  keeps 
saying  awful  things  about  our  leaving  you  here, 
and  she  has  rather  terrified  me.  You  are  so 
beautiful,  Harry,  —  although  you  never  let  us 
tell  you  so.  And  Sadie  says  you  have  a  soul 
and  I  have  n?t,  and  that  souls  are  deadly  things 
to  have.  I  feel  to-night  that  in  urging  you  to 
stay  I  am  taking  the  burden  of  your  soul  on 
me!  Do  be  careful,  Harry.  If  any  one  you  do 
not  know  speaks  to  you  call  a  policeman.  And 
be  sure  you  get  into  a  respectable  pension. 
There  are  queer  ones. 

"Sadie  and  I  think  that  if  you  can  get  along 
on  what  you  get  from  home  —  you  said  your 
mother  would  get  insurance,  did  n't  you?  - 
and  will  keep  this  as  a  sort  of  fund  to  take  you 
home  if  anything  should  go  wrong — .  But 
perhaps  we  are  needlessly  worried.  In  any  case, 
of  course  it 's  a  loan,  ana  you  can  preserve  that 
magnificent  independence  of  yours  by  sending 
it  back  when  you  get  to  work  to  make  your 
fortune.  And  if  you  are  doubtful  at  all,  jus* 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

remember  that  hopeful  little  mother  of  yours 
who  sent  you  over  to  get  what  she  had  never 
been  able  to  have  for  herself,  and  who  planned 
this  for  you  from  the  time  you  were  a  kiddy  and 
she  named  you  Harmony. 

"I'm  not  saying  good-bye.  I  can't. 

"SCATCH." 

That  night,  while  the  Portier  and  his  wife 
slept  under  their  crimson  feather  beds  and  the 
crystals  of  the  chandelier  in  the  salon  shook 
in  the  draft  as  if  the  old  Austrian  court  still 
danced  beneath,  Harmony  fought  her  battle. 
And  a  battle  it  was.  Scatchy  and  the  Big 
Soprano  had  not  known  everything.  There 
had  been  no  insurance  on  her  father's  life; 
the  little  mother  was  penniless.  A  married 
sister  would  care  for  her,  but  what  then?  Har- 
mony had  enough  remaining  of  her  letter-of- 
credit  to  take  her  home,  and  she  had  —  the 
hoard  under  the  pillow.  To  go  back  and  teach 
the  violin;  or  to  stay  and  finish  under  the 
master,  be  presented,  as  he  had  promised  her, 
at  a  special  concert  in  Vienna,  with  all  the 
prestige  at  home  that  that  would  mean,  and  its 
resulting  possibility  of  fame  and  fortune  — 
which? 

She  decided  to  stay.  There  might  be  a  con- 
cert or  so,  and  she  could  teach  English.  The 

16 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Viennese  were  crazy  about  English.  Some  of 
the  stores  advertised  "English  Spoken."  That 
would  be  something  to  fall  back  on,  a  clerkship 
during  the  day. 

Toward  dawn  she  discovered  that  she  was 
very  cold,  and  she  went  into  the  Big  Soprano's 
deserted  and  disordered  room.  The  tile  stove 
was  warm  and  comfortable,  but  on  the  toilet 
table  there  lay  a  disreputable  comb  with  most 
of  the  teeth  gone.  Harmony  kissed  this  un- 
romantic  object!  Which  reveals  the  fact  that, 
genius  or  not,  she  was  only  a  young  and  rather 
frightened  girl,  and  that  every  atom  of  her 
ached  with  loneliness. 

She  did  not  sleep  at  all,  but  sat  curled  up  on 
the  bed  with  her  feet  under  her  and  thought 
things  out.  At  dawn  the  Portier,  crawling  out 
into  the  cold  from  under  his  feathers,  opened  the 
door  into  the  hall  and  listened.  She  was  playing, 
not  practicing,  and  the  music  was  the  barcarolle 
from  the  "Tales"  of  Hoffmann.  Standing  in 
the  doorway  in  his  night  attire,  his  chest  open 
to  the  frigid  morning  air,  his  face  upraised  to 
the  floor  above,  he  hummed  the  melody  in  a 
throaty  tenor. 

When  the  music  had  died  away  he  went  in 
and  closed  the  door  sheepishly.  His  wife 
stood  over  the  stove,  a  stick  of  firewood  in  her 
hand.  She  eyed  him. 

17 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"So!   It  is  the  American  Fraulein  now!" 

"I  did  but  hum  a  little.  She  drags  out  my 
heart  with  her  music."  He  fumbled  with  his 
mustache  bandage,  which  was  knotted  behind, 
keeping  one  eye  on  his  wTife,  whose  morning 
pleasure  it  was  to  untie  it  for  him. 

"She  leaves  to-day,"  she  announced,  ignoring 
the  knot. 

"Why?   She  is  alone.     Rosa  says  —  " 

"She  leaves  to-day!" 

The  knot  was  hopeless  now,  double-tied  and 
pulled  to  smooth  compactness.  The  Portier 
jerked  at  it. 

"No  Fraulein  stays  here  alone.  It  is  not 
respectable.  And  what  saw  I  last  night,  after 
she  entered  and  you  stood  moon-gazing  up  the 
stair  after  her!  A  man  in  the  gateway!" 

The  Portier  was  angry.  He  snarled  some- 
thing through  the  bandage,  which  had  slipped 
down  over  his  mouth,  and  picked  up  a  great  knife. 

"She  will  stay  if  she  so  desire,"  he  muttered 
furiously,  and,  raising  the  knife,  he  cut  the 
knotted  string.  His  mustache,  faintly  gray  and 
sweetly  up-curled,  stood  revealed. 

"She  will  stay!"  he  repeated.  "And  when 
you  see  men  at  the  gate,  let  me  know.  She  is 
an  angel!" 

"And  she  looks  like  the  angel  at  the  opera, 
hem?" 

18 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

This  was  a  crushing  blow.  The  Portier  wilted. 
Such  things  come  from  telling  one's  cousin, 
who  keeps  a  brushshop,  what  is  in  one's  heart. 
Yesterday  his  wife  had  needed  a  brush,  and 
to-day  -  -  Himmel,  the  girl  must  go ! 

Harmony  knew  also  that  she  must  go.  The 
apartment  was  large  and  expensive;  Rosa 
ate  much  and  wasted  more.  She  must  find 
somewhere  a  tiny  room  with  board,  a  humble 
little  room  but  with  a  stove.  It  is  folly  to  prac- 
tice with  stiffened  fingers.  A  room  where  her 
playing  would  not  annoy  people,  that  was  im- 
portant. 

She  paid  Rosa  off  that  morning  out  of  money 
left  for  that  purpose.  Rosa  wept.  She  said 
she  would  stay  with  the  Fraulein  for  her  keep, 
because  it  was  not  the  custom  for  young  ladies 
to  be  alone  in  the  city  —  young  girls  of  the 
people,  of  course;  but  beautiful  young  ladies, 
no! 

Harmony  gave  her  an  extra  krone  or  two 
out  of  sheer  gratitude,  but  she  could  not  keep 
her.  And  at  noon,  having  packed  her  trunk, 
she  went  down  to  interview  the  Portier  and  his 
wife,  who  were  agents  under  the  owner  for  the 
old  house. 

The  Portier,  entirely  subdued,  was  sweeping 
out  the  hallway.  He  looked  past  the  girl,  not 
at  her,  and  observed  impassively  that  the  lease 

19 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

was  up  and  it  was  her  privilege  to  go.  In  the 
daylight  she  was  not  so  like  the  angel,  and 
after  all  she  could  only  play  the  violin.  The 
angel  had  a  voice,  such  a  voice!  And  besides, 
there  was  an  eye  at  the  crack  of  the  door. 

The  bit  of  cheer  of  the  night  before  was 
gone;  it  was  with  a  heavy  heart  that  Har- 
mony started  on  her  quest  for  cheaper  quarters. 

Winter,  which  had  threatened  for  a  month, 
had  come  at  last.  The  cobblestones  glittered 
with  ice  and  the  small  puddles  in  the  gutters 
were  frozen.  Across  the  street  a  spotted  deer, 
shot  in  the  mountains  the  day  before  and 
hanging  from  a  hook  before  a  wild-game  shop, 
was  frozen  quite  stiff.  It  was  a  pretty  creature. 
The  girl  turned  her  eyes  away.  A  young  man, 
buying  cheese  and  tinned  fish  in  the  shop, 
watched  after  her. 

"That  's  an  American  girl,  is  n't  it?  "  he  asked 
in  American-German. 

The  shopkeeper  was  voluble.  Also  Rosa  had 
bought  much  from  him,  and  Rosa  talked.  When 
the  American  left  the  shop  he  knew  everything 
of  Harmony  that  Rosa  knew  except  her  name. 
Rosa  called  her  "The  Beautiful  One."  Also 
he  was  short  one  krone  four  hellers  in  his  change, 
which  is  readily  done  when  a  customer  is  plainly 
thinking  of  a  "beautiful  one." 

Harmony  searched  all  day  for  the  little  room 

20 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

with  board  and  a  stove  and  no  objection  to 
practicing.  There  were  plenty —  but  the  rates ! 
The  willow  plume  looked  prosperous,  and  she 
had  a  way  of  making  the  plainest  garments 
appear  costly.  Landladies  looked  at  the  plume 
and  the  suit  and  heard  the  soft  swish  of  silk 
beneath,  which  marks  only  self-respect  in  the 
American  woman  but  is  extravagance  in  Europe, 
and  added  to  their  regular  terms  until  poor 
Harmony's  heart  almost  stood  still.  And  then 
at  last  toward  evening  she  happened  on  a  gloomy 
little  pension  near  the  corner  of  the  Alser- 
strasse,  and  it  being  dark  and  the  plume  not. 
showing,  and  the  landlady  missing  the  rustle 
owing  to  cotton  in  her  ears  for  earache,  Harmony 
found  terms  that  she  could  meet  for  a  time. 

A  mean  little  room  enough,  but  with  a  stove. 
The  bed  sagged  in  the  center,  and  the  toilet- 
table  had  a  mirror  that  made  one  eye  appear 
higher  than  the  other  and  twisted  one's  nose. 
But  there  was  an  odor  of  stewing  cabbage  in 
the  air.  Also,  alas,  there  was  the  odor  of  many 
previous  stewed  cabbages,  and  of  dusty  car- 
pets and  stale  tobacco.  Harmony  had  had  no 
lunch;  she  turned  rather  faint. 

She  arranged  to  come  at  once,  and  got  out 
into  the  comparative  purity  of  the  staircase 
atmosphere  and  felt  her  way  down.  She  reeled 
once  or  twice.  At  the  bottom  of  the  dark  stairs 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

she  stood  for  a  moment  with  her  eyes  closed, 
to  the  dismay  of  a  young  man  who  had  just 
come  in  with  a  cheese  and  some  tinned  fish 
under  his  arm. 

He  put  down  his  packages  on  the  stone  floor 
and  caught  her  arm. 

"Not  ill,  are  you?"  he  asked  in  English, 
and  then  remembering.  "Bist  du  krank?"  He 
colored  violently  at  that,  recalling  too  late  the 
familiarity  of  the  "du." 

Harmony   smiled  faintly. 

"Only  tired,"  she  said  in  English.  "And  the 
odor  of  cabbage  - 

Her  color  had  come  back  and  she  freed  her- 
self from  his  supporting  hand.  He  whistled 
softly.  He  had  recognized  her. 

"Cabbage,  of  course!"  he  said.  "The  pension 
upstairs  is  full  of  it.  I  live  there,  and  I've 
eaten  so  much  of  it  I  could  be  served  up  with 
pork." 

"I  am  going  to  live  there.  Is  it  as  bad  as 
that?" 

He  waved  a  hand  toward  the  parcels  on  the 
floor. 

"So  bad,"  he  observed,  "that  I  keep  body 
and  soul  together  by  buying  strong  and  odor- 
ous food  at  the  delicatessens  —  odorous,  be- 
cause only  rugged  flavors  rise  above  the  atmos- 
phere up  there.  Cheese  is  the  only  thing  that 

22 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

really  knocks  out  the  cabbage,  and  once  or 
twice  even  cheese  has  retired  defeated." 

"But  I  don't  like  cheese."  In  sheer  relief 
from  the  loneliness  of  the  day  her  spirits  were 
rising. 

"Then  coffee!  But  not  there.  Coffee  at  the 
coffee-house  on  the  corner.  I  say  — "  He  hesi- 
tated. 

"Yes?" 

"  Would  you  —  don't  you  think  a  cup  of  coffee 
would  set  you  up  a  bit?" 

"It  sounds  attractive," — uncertainly. 

"Coffee  with  whipped  cream  and  some  little 
cakes?"  , 

Harmony  hesitated.  In  the  gloom  of  the  hall 
she  could  hardly  see  this  brisk  young  Ameri- 
can —  young,  she  knew  by  his  voice,  tall  by 
his  silhouette,  strong  by  the  way  he  had  caught 
her.  She  could  not  see  his  face,  but  she  liked 
his  voice. 

"Do  you  mean  —  with  you?" 

"I'm  a  doctor.  I  am  going  to  fill  my  own 
prescription." 

That  sounded  reassuring.  Doctors  were  not 
as  other  men;  they  were  legitimate  friends  in 
need. 

"I  am  sure  it  is  not  proper,  but  - 

"Proper!  Of  course  it  is.  I  shall  send  you  a 
bill  for  professional  services.  Besides,  won't  we 

23 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

be  formally  introduced  to-night  by  the  land- 
lady? Come  now  —  to  the  coffee-house  and 
the  Paris  edition  of  the  'Herald'!"  But  the 
next  moment  he  paused  and  ran  his  hand  over 
his  chin.  "I'm  pretty  disreputable,"  he  ex- 
plained. "I  have  been  in  a  clinic  all  day,  and, 
hang  it  all,  I  'm  not  shaved." 

"What  difference  does  that  make?" 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  he  explained  gravely, 
picking  up  the  cheese  and  the  tinned  fish,  "it 
makes  a  difference  in  me  that  I  wish  you  to 
realize  before  you  see  me  in  a  strong  light." 

He  rapped  at  the  Portier's  door,  with  the  in- 
tention of  leaving  his  parcels  there,  but  receiv- 
ing no  reply  tucked  them  under  his  arm.  A 
moment  later  Harmony  was  in  the  open  air, 
rather  dazed,  a  bit  excited,  and  lovely  with  the 
color  the  adventure  brought  into  her  face.  Her 
companion  walked  beside  her,  tall,  slightly 
stooped.  She  essayed  a  fugitive  little  side- 
glance  up  at  him,  and  meeting  his  eyes  hastily 
averted  hers. 

They  passed  a  policeman,  and  suddenly  there- 
flashed  into  the  girl's  mind  little  Scatchett's 
letter. 

"Do  be  careful,  Harry.  If  any  one  you  dc 
not  know  speaks  to  you,  call  a  policeman." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  coffee-house  was  warm  and  bright. 
Round  its  small  tables  were  gathered 
miscellaneous  groups,  here  and  there  a  woman, 
but  mostly  men  —  uniformed  officers,  who  made 
of  the  neighborhood  coffee-house  a  sort  of  club, 
where  under  their  breath  they  criticized  the 
Government  and  retailed  small  regimental  gos- 
sip; professors  from  the  university,  still  wearing 
under  the  beards  of  middle  life  the  fine  hori- 
zontal scars  of  student  days ;  elderly  doctors  from 
the  general  hospital  across  the  street;  even  a 
Hofrath  or  two,  drinking  beer  and  reading  the 
"Fliegende  Blaetter"  and  "  Simplicissimus " ; 
and  in  an  alcove  round  a  billiard  table  a  group 
of  noisy  Korps  students.  Over  all  a  permeating 
odor  of  coffee,  strong  black  coffee,  made  with  a 
fig  or  two  to  give  it  color.  It  rose  even  above 
the  blue  tobacco  haze  and  dominated  the  atmos- 
phere with  its  spicy  and  stimulating  richness. 
A  bustle  of  waiters,  a  hum  of  conversation,  the 
rattle  of  newspapers  and  the  click  of  billiard 
balls  —  this  was  the  coffee-house. 

Harmony  had  never  been  inside  one  before. 
The  little  music  colony  had  been  a  tight-closed 

25 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

corporation,  retaining  its  American  integrity, 
in  spite  of  the  salon  of  Maria  Theresa  and  three 
expensive  lessons  a  week  in  German.  Harmony 
knew  the  art  galleries  and  the  churches,  which 
were  free,  and  the  opera,  thanks  to  no  butter  at 
supper.  But  of  that  backbone  of  Austrian  life, 
the  coffee-house,  she  was  profoundly  ignorant. 

Her  companion  found  her  a  seat  in  a  corner 
near  a  heater  and  disappeared  for  an  instant  on 
the  search  for  the  Paris  edition  of  the  "Herald." 
The  girl  followed  him  with  her  eyes.  Seen  under 
the  bright  electric  lights,  he  was  not  handsome, 
hardly  good-looking.  His  mouth  was  wide,  his 
nose  irregular,  his  hair  a  nondescript  brown,— 
but  the  mouth  had  humor,  the  nose  character, 
and,  thank  Heaven,  there  was  plenty  of  hair. 
Not  that  Harmony  saw  all  this  at  once.  As 
he  tacked  to  and  fro  round  the  tables,  with  a  nod 
here  and  a  word  there,  she  got  a  sort  of  ensemble 
effect  —  a  tall  man,  possibly  thirty,  broad- 
shouldered,  somewhat  stooped,  as  tall  men  are 
apt  to  be.  And  shabby,  undeniably  shabby! 

The  shabbiness  was  a  shock.  A  much-braided 
officer,  trim  from  the  points  of  his  mustache  to 
the  points  of  his  shoes,  rose  to  speak  to  him.  The 
shabbiness  was  accentuated  by  the  contrast. 
Possibly  the  revelation  was  an  easement  to  the 
girl's  nervousness.  This  smiling  and  unpressed 
individual,  blithely  waving  aloft  the  Paris  edi- 

26 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

tion  of  the  "Herald"  and  equally  blithely  ig- 
noring the  maledictions  of  the  student  from 
whom  he  had  taken  it  —  even  Scatchy  could 
not  have  called  him  a  vulture  or  threatened 
him  with  the  police. 

He  placed  the  paper  before  her  and  sat  down 
at  her  side,  not  to  interfere  with  her  outlook 
over  the  room. 

"Warmer?"  he  asked. 

"Very  much." 

"Coffee  is  coming.  And  cinnamon  cakes  with 
plenty  of  sugar.  They  know  me  here  and  they 
know  where  I  live.  They  save  the  sugariest 
cakes  for  me.  Don't  let  me  bother  you;  go  on 
and  read.  See  which  of  the  smart  set  is  getting 
a  divorce  —  or  is  it  always  the  same  one? 
And  who's  President  back  home." 

"I'd  rather  look  round.  It's  curious,  isn't 
it?" 

"Curious?  It 's  heavenly!  It 's  the  one  thing 
I  am  going  to  take  back  to  America  with  me 
—  one  coffee-house,  one  dozen  military  men  for 
local  color,  one  dozen  students  ditto,  and  one 
proprietor's  wife  to  sit  in  the  cage  and  short- 
change the  unsuspecting.  I  '11  grow  wealthy." 

"But  what  about  the  medical  practice?" 

He  leaned  over  toward  her;  his  dark-gray 
eyes  fulfilled  the  humorous  promise  of  his 
mouth. 

27 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Why,  it  will  work  out  perfectly,"  he  said 
whimsically.  "The  great  American  public  will 
eat  cinnamon  cakes  and  drink  coffee  until  the 
feeble  American  nervous  system  will  be  shat- 
tered. I  shall  have  an  office  across  the 
street!" 

After  that,  having  seen  how  tired  she  looked, 
he  forbade  conversation  until  she  had  had  her 
coffee.  She  ate  the  cakes,  too,  and  he  watched 
her  with  comfortable  satisfaction. 

"Nod  your  head  but  don't  speak,"  he  said. 
"Remember,  I  am  prescribing,  and  there's 
to  be  no  conversation  until  the  coffee  is  down. 
Shall  I  or  shall  I  not  open  the  cheese?" 

But  Harmony  did  not  wish  the  cheese,  and  so 
signified.  Something  inherently  delicate  in  the 
unknown  kept  him  from  more  than  an  occa- 
sional swift  glance  at  her.  He  read  aloud,  as  she 
ate,  bits  of  news  from  the  paper,  pausing  to  sip 
his  own  coffee  and  to  cast  an  eye  over  the 
crowded  room.  Here  and  there  an  officer,  gaz- 
ing with  too  open  admiration  on  Harmony's 
lovely  face,  found  himself  fixed  by  a  pair  of 
steel-gray  eyes  that  were  anything  but  humor- 
ous at  that  instant,  and  thought  best  to  shift 
his  gaze. 

The  coffee  finished,  the  girl  began  to  gather 
up  her  wraps.  But  the  unknown  protested. 

"The  function  of  a  coffee-house,"  he  explained 
28 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

gravely,  "is  twofold.  Coffee  is  only  the  first 
half.  The  second  half  is  conversation." 

"I  converse  very  badly." 

"So  do  I.  Suppose  we  talk  about  ourselves. 
We  are  sure  to  do  that  well.  Shall  I  commence?  " 

Harmony  was  in  no  mood  to  protest.  Having 
swallowed  coffee,  why  choke  over  conversation? 
Besides,  she  was  very  comfortable.  It  was 
warm  there,  with  the  heater  at  her  back;  better 
than  the  little  room  with  the  sagging  bed  and 
the  doors  covered  with  wall  paper.  Her  feet 
had  stopped  aching,  too.  She  could  have  sat 
there  for  hours.  And  -  -  why  evade  it?  —  she 
was  interested.  This  whimsical  and  respectful 
young  man  with  his  absurd  talk  and  his  shabby 
clothes  had  roused  her  curiosity. 

"Please,"  she  assented. 

"Then,  first  of  all,  my  name.  I'm  getting 
that  over  early,  because  it  is  n't  much,  as  names 
go.  Peter  Byrne  it  is.  Don't  shudder." 

"Certainly  I'm  not  shuddering." 

"I  have  another  name,  put  in  by  my  Irish 
father  to  conciliate  a  German  uncle  of  my 
mother's.  Augustus !  It 's  rather  a  mess.  What 
shall  I  put  on  my  professional  brassplate?  If 
I  put  P.  Augustus  Byrne  nobody's  fooled. 
They  know  my  wretched  first  name  is  Peter." 

"Or  Patrick." 

"I  rather  like  Patrick — if  I  thought  it  might 


pass  as  Patrick!  Patrick  has  possibilities. 
The  diminutive  is  Pat,  and  that's  not  bad. 
But  Peter!" 

"Do  you  know,"  Harmony  confessed  half 
shyly,  "I  like  Peter  as  a  name." 

"Peter  it  shall  be,  then.  I  go  down  to  pos- 
terity and  fame  as  Peter  Byrne.  The  rest 
does  n't  amount  to  much,  but  I  want  you  to 
know  it,  since  you  have  been  good  enough  to 
accept  me  on  faith.  I  'm  here  alone,  from  a 
little  town  in  eastern  Ohio;  worked  my  way 
through  a  coeducational  college  in  the  West 
and  escaped  unmarried;  did  two  years  in  a  dry- 
goods  store  until,  by  saving  and  working  in  my 
vacations,  I  got  through  medical  college  and 
tried  general  practice.  Did  n't  like  it  —  always 
wanted  to  do  surgery.  A  little  legacy  from  the 
German  uncle,  trying  to  atone  for  the  'Augus- 
tus,' gave  me  enough  money  to  come  here. 
I  've  got  a  chance  with  the  Days — surgeons,  you 
know  —  when  I  go  back,  if  I  can  hang  on  long 
enough.  That 's  all.  Here  's  a  traveler's  check 
with  my  name  on  it,  to  vouch  for  the  truth  of 
this  thrilling  narrative.  Gaze  on  it  with  awe; 
there  are  only  a  few  of  them  left!" 

Harmony  was  as  delicately  strung,  as  vibrat- 
ingly  responsive  as  the  strings  of  her  own  violin, 
and  under  the  even  lightness  of  his  tone  she 
felt  many  things  that  met  a  response  in  her  - 

30 


The  Street  ot  Seven  Stars 

loneliness  and  struggle,  and  the  ever-present 
anxiety  about  money,  grim  determination,  hope 
and  fear,  and  even  occasional  despair.  He  was 
still  young,  but  there  were  lines  in  his  face  and 
a  hint  of  gray  in  his  hair.  Even  had  he  been 
less  frank,  she  would  have  known  soon  enough 
—  the  dingy  little  pension,  the  shabby  clothes  - 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

"Thank  you  for  telling  me,"  she  said  simply. 
"I  think  I  understand  very  well  because  —  it's 
music  with  me:  violin.  And  my  friends  have 
gone,  so  I  am  alone,  too." 

He  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  looked 
out  over  the  crowd  without  seeing  it. 

"It's  curious,  isn't  it?"  he  said.  "Here  we 
are,  you  and  I,  meeting  in  the  center  of  Europe, 
both  lonely  as  the  mischief,  both  working  our 
heads  off  for  an  idea  that  may  never  pan  out! 
Why  aren't  you  at  home  to-night,  eating  a 
civilized  beefsteak  and  running  upstairs  to 
get  ready  for  a  nice  young  man  to  bring  you  a 
box  of  chocolates?  Why  am  I  not  measuring  out 
calico  in  Shipley  &  West's?  Instead,  we  are 
going  to  Frau  Schwarz',  to  listen  to  cold  ham 
and  scorched  compote  eaten  in  six  different 
languages." 

Harmony  made  no  immediate  reply.  He 
seemed  to  expect  none.  She  was  drawing  on  her 
gloves,  her  eyes,  like  his,  roving  over  the  crowd. 

31 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Far  back  among  the  tables  a  young  man  rose 
and  yawned.  Then,  seeing  Byrne,  he  waved  a 
greeting  to  him.  Byrne's  eyes,  from  being  in- 
trospective, became  watchful. 

The  young  man  was  handsome  in  a  florid, 
red-cheeked  way,  with  black  hair  and  blue  eyes. 
Unlike  Byrne,  he  was  foppishly  neat.  He  was 
not  alone.  A  slim  little  Austrian  girl,  exceed- 
ingly chic,  rose  when  he  did  and  threw  away 
the  end  of  a  cigarette. 

"Why  do  we  go  so  soon?"  she  demanded 
fretfully  in  German.  "It  is  early  still." 

He  replied  in  English.  It  was  a  curious  way 
they  had,  and  eminently  satisfactory,  each  un- 
derstanding better  than  he  spoke  the  other's 
language. 

"Because,  my  beloved,"  he  said  lightly,  "you 
are  smoking  a  great  many  poisonous  and  highly 
expensive  cigarettes.  Also  I  wish  to  speak  to 
Peter." 

The  girl  followed  his  eyes  and  stiffened 
jealously. 

"Who  is  that  with  Peter?" 

"We  are  going  over  to  find  out,  little  one. 
Old  Peter  with  a  woman  at  last!" 

The  little  Austrian  walked  delicately,  swaying 
her  slim  body  with  a  slow  and  sensuous  grace. 
She  touched  an  officer  as  she  passed  him,  and 
paused  to  apologize,  to  the  officer's  delight  and 

32 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

her  escort's  irritation.  And  Peter  Byrne  watched 
and  waited,  a  line  of  annoyance  between  his 
brows.  The  girl  was  ahead;  that  complicated 
things. 

When  she  was  within  a  dozen  feet  of  the 
table  he  rose  hastily,  with  a  word  of  apology, 
and  met  the  couple.  It  was  adroitly  done.  He 
had  taken  the  little  Austrian's  arm  and  led  her 
by  the  table  while  he  was  still  greeting  her. 
He  held  her  in  conversation  in  his  absurd  Ger- 
man until  they  had  reached  the  swinging  doors, 
while  her  companion  followed  helplessly.  And 
he  bowed  her  out,  protesting  his  undying  ad- 
miration for  her  eyes,  while  the  florid  youth 
alternately  raged  behind  him  and  stared  back 
at  Harmony,  interested  and  unconscious  behind 
her  table. 

The  little  Austrian  was  on  the  pavement 
when  Byrne  turned,  unsmiling,  to  the  other 
man. 

"That  won't  do,  you  know,  Stewart,"  he  said, 
grave  but  not  unfriendly. 

"The  Kid  would  n't  bite  her." 

"We  '11  not  argue  about  it." 

After  a  second's  awkward  pause  Stewart 
smiled. 

"Certainly  not,"  he  agreed  cheerfully.  "That 
is  up  to  you,  of  cource.  I  did  n't  know.  We  're 
looking  for  you  to-night." 

33 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

A  sudden  repulsion  for  the  evening's  engage- 
ment rose  in  Byrne,  but  the  situation  following 
his  ungraciousness  was  delicate. 

"I  '11  be  round,"  he  said.  "I  have  a  lecture 
and  I  may  be  late,  but  I'll  come." 

The  "Kid"  was  not  stupid.  She  moved  off 
into  the  night,  chin  in  air,  angrily  flushed. 

:'You  saw!"  she  choked,  when  Stewart  had 
overtaken  her  and  slipped  a  hand  through  her 
arm.  "He  protects  her  from  me!  It  is  because 
of  you.  Before  I  knew  you  - 

"Before  you  knew  me,  little  one,"  he  said 
cheerfully,  "you  were  exactly  wrhat  you  are  now/' 

She  paused  on  the  curb  and  raised  her  voice. 

"So!    And  what  is  that?" 

"  Beautiful  as  the  stars,  only  —  not  so 
remote." 

In  their  curious  bi-lingual  talk  there  was  little 
room  for  subtlety.  The  "beautiful"  calmed  her, 
but  the  second  part  of  the  sentence  roused  her 
suspicion. 

"Remote?    What  is  that?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  Worthington." 

The  name  was  a  signal  for  war.  Stewart 
repented,  but  too  late. 

In  the  cold  evening  air,  to  the  amusement  of 
a  passing  detail  of  soldiers  trundling  a  bread- 
wagon  by  a  rope,  Stewart  stood  on  the  pave- 
ment and  dodged  verbal  brickbats  of  Viennese 

34 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Idioms  and  German  epithets.  He  drew  his  chin 
into  the  up-turned  collar  of  his  overcoat  and 
waited,  an  absurdly  patient  figure,  until  the  hail 
of  consonants  had  subsided  into  a  rain  of  tears 
Then  he  took  the  girl's  elbow  again  and  led  her 
childishly  weeping,  into  a  narrow  side  street 
beyond  the  prying  ears  and  eyes  of  the  Alser- 
strasse. 

Byrne  went  back  to  Harmony.  The  incident 
of  Stewart  and  the  girl  was  closed  and  he  dis- 
missed it  instantly.  That  situation  was  not  his, 
or  of  his  making.  But  here  in  the  coffee-house,, 
lovely,  alluring,  rather  puzzled  at  this  moment, 
was  also  a  situation.  For  there  was  a  situation. 
He  had  suspected  it  that  morning,  listening 
to  the  delicatessen-seller's  narrative  of  Rosa's 
account  of  the  disrupted  colony  across  in  the 
rid  lodge;  he  had  been  certain  of  it  that  even- 
ing, finding  Harmony  in  the  dark  entrance  to 
his  own  rather  sordid  pension.  Now,  in  the 
bright  light  of  the  coffee-house,  surmising  her 
poverty,  seeing  her  beauty,  the  emotional  com- 
ing and  going  of  her  color,  her  frank  loneliness, 
and  —  God  save  the  mark!  —  her  trust  in  him, 
he  accepted  the  situation  and  adopted  it:  his 
responsibility,  if  you  please. 

He  straightened  under  it.  He  knew  the  old 
city  fairly  well  —  enough  to  love  it  and  to  loathe 
it  in  one  breath.  He  had  seen  its  tragedies  and 

35 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

passed  them  by,  or  had,  in  his  haphazard  way, 
thrown  a  greeting  to  them,  or  even  a  glass  of 
native  wine.  And  he  knew  the  musical  temper- 
ament; the  all  or  nothing  of  its  insistent  de- 
mands; its  heights  that  are  higher  than  others, 
its  wretchednesses  that  are  hell.  Once  in  the 
Hofstadt  Theater,  where  he  had  bought  stand- 
ing room,  he  had  seen  a  girl  he  had  known  in 
Berlin,  where  he  was  taking  clinics  and  where 
she  was  cooking  her  own  meals.  She  had  been 
studying  singing.  In  the  Hofstadt  Theater  she 
had  worn  a  sable  coat  and  had  avoided  his  eyes. 

Perhaps  the  old  coffee-house  had  seen  nothing 
more  absurd,  in  its  years  of  coffee  and  billiards 
and  Miinchener  beer,  than  Peter's  new  resolu- 
tion that  night:  this  poverty  adopting  poverty, 
this  youth  adopting  youth,  with  the  altruistic 
purpose  of  saving  it  from  itself. 

And  this,  mind  you,  before  Peter  Byrne  had 
heard  Harmony's  story  or  knew  her  name,  Rosa 
having  called  her  "The  Beautiful  One"  in  her 
narrative,  and  the  delicatessen-seller  being  literal 
in  his  repetition. 

Back  to  "The  Beautiful  One"  went  Peter 
Byrne,  and,  true  to  his  new  part  of  protector 
and  guardian,  squared  his  shoulders  and  tried  to 
look  much  older  than  he  really  was,  and  respon- 
sible. The  result  was  a  grimness  that  alarmed 
Harmony  back  to  the  forgotten  proprieties. 

36 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I  think  I  must  go,"  she  said  hurriedly,  after 
a  glance  at  his  determinedly  altruistic  profile. 
"I  must  finish  packing  my  things.  The  Portier 
has  promised — " 

"Go!  Why,  you  haven't  even  told  me  your 
name!" 

"Frau  Schwarz  will  present  you  to-night," 
primly  and  rising. 

Peter  Byrne  rose,  too. 

"I  am  going  back  with  you.  You  should  not 
go  through  that  lonely  yard  alone  after  dark." 

"Yard!   How  do  you  know  that?" 

Byrne  was  picking  up  the  cheese,  which  he 
had  thoughtlessly  set  on  the  heater,  and  which 
proved  to  be  in  an  alarming  state  of  dissolution. 
It  took  a  moment  to  rewrap,  and  incidentally 
furnished  an  inspiration.  He  indicated  it  airily. 

"  Saw  you  this  morning  coming  out  —  deli- 
catessen shop  across  the  street,"  he  said  glibly. 
And  then,  in  an  outburst  of  honesty  which  the 
girl's  eyes  seemed  somehow  to  compel:  "That's 
true,  but  it 's  not  all  the  truth.  I  was  on  the  bus 
last  night,  and  when  you  got  off  alone  I  -  -  I  saw 
you  were  an  American,  and  that 's  not  a  good 
neighborhood.  I  took  the  liberty  of  following  you 
to  your  gate!" 

He  need  not  have  been  alarmed.  HTarmony 
was  only  grateful,  and  said  so.  And  in  her  grati- 
tude she  made  no  objection  to  his  suggestion  that 

37 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

he  see  her  safely  to  the  old  lodge  and  help  her 
carry  her  hand-luggage  and  her  violin  to  the 
pension.  He  paid  the  trifling  score,  and  followed 
by  many  eyes  in  the  room  they  went  out  into 
the  crisp  night  together. 

At  the  lodge  the  doors  stood  wide,  and  a  vig- 
orous sound  of  scrubbing  showed  that  the  Por- 
tier's  wife  was  preparing  for  the  inspection  of 
possible  new  tenants.  She  was  cleaning  down 
the  stairs  by  the  light  of  a  candle,  and  the  steam 
of  the  hot  water  on  the  cold  marble  invested 
her  like  an  aura.  She  stood  aside  to  let  them 
pass,  and  then  went  cumbrously  down  the  stairs 
to  where,  a  fork  in  one  hand  and  a  pipe  in  the 
other,  the  Portier  was  frying  chops  for  the  even- 
ing meal. 

"What  have  I  said?"  she  demanded  from  the 
doorway.  :'Your  angel  is  here." 

"So!" 

"She  with  whom  you  sing,  old  cracked  voice1. 
Whose  money  you  refuse,  because  she  reminds 
you  of  your  opera  singer !  She  is  again  here,  and 
with  a  man!" 

"It  is  the  way  of  the  young  and  beautiful  - 
there  is  always  a  man,"  said  the  Portier,  turning 
a  chop. 

His  Vife  wiped  her  steaming  hands  on  her 
apron  and  turned  away,  exasperated. 

"It  is  the  same  man  whom  I  last  night  saw 

38 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

at  the  gate,"  she  threw  back  over  her  shoulder. 
"I  knew  it  from  the  first;  but  you,  great  booby, 
can  see  nothing  but  red  lips.  Bah!" 

Upstairs  in  the  salon  of  Maria  Theresa,  lighted 
by  one  candle  and  freezing  cold,  in  a  stiff  chair 
under  the  great  chandelier  Peter  Byrne  sat  and 
waited  and  blew  on  his  fingers.  Down  below, 
in  the  Street  of  Seven  Stars,  the  arc  lights  swung 
in  the  wind. 


CHAPTER  IV 

supper  that  evening  was  even  un- 
JL  usually  bad.  Frau  Schwarz,  much  crimped 
and  clad  in  frayed  black  satin,  presided  at  the 
head  of  the  long  table.  There  were  few,  almost 
no  Americans,  the  Americans  flocking  to  good 
food  at  reckless  prices  in  more  fashionable  pen- 
sions; to  the  Frau  Gallitzenstein's,  for  instance, 
in  the  Kochgasse,  where  there  was  to  be  had 
real  beefsteak,  where  turkeys  were  served  at 
Thanksgiving  and  Christmas,  and  where,  were 
one  so  minded,  one  might  revel  in  whipped 
cream. 

The  Pension  Schwarz,  however,  was  not  with- 
out adornment.  In  the  center  of  the  table  was  a 
large  bunch  of  red  cotton  roses  with  wire  stems 
and  green  paper  leaves,  and  over  the  side-table, 
with  its  luxury  of  compote  in  tall  glass  dishes  and 
its  wealth  of  small  hard  cakes,  there  hung  a 
framed  motto  which  said,  "Nicht  Rauchen," 
"No  Smoking," —  and  which  looked  suspiciously 
as  if  it  had  once  adorned  a  compartment  of  a 
railroad  train. 

Peter  Byrne  was  early  in  the  dining-room. 
He  had  made,  for  him,  a  careful  toilet,  which 

40 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

consisted  of  a  shave  and  clean  linen.  But  he  had 
gone  further:  He  had  discovered,  for  the  first 
time  in  the  three  months  of  its  defection,  a  but- 
ton missing  from  his  coat,  and  had  set  about  to 
replace  it.  He  had  cut  a  button  from  another 
coat,  by  the  easy  method  of  amputating  it  with 
a  surgical  bistoury,  and  had  sewed  it  in  its  new 
position  with  a  curved  surgical  needle  and  a 
few  inches  of  sterilized  catgut.  The  operation 
was  slow  and  painful,  and  accomplished  only 
with  the  aid  of  two  cigarettes  and  an  artery  clip. 
When  it  was  over  he  tied  the  ends  in  a  surgeon's 
knot  underneath  and  stood  back  to  consider  the 
result.  It  seemed  neat  enough,  but  conspicuous. 
After  a  moment  or  two  of  troubled  thought  he 
blacked  the  white  catgut  with  a  dot  of  ink  and 
went  on  his  way  rejoicing. 

Peter  Byrne  was  entirely  untroubled  as  to  the 
wisdom  of  the  course  he  had  laid  out  for  himself. 
He  followed  no  consecutive  line  of  thought  as 
he  dressed.  When  he  was  not  smoking  he  was 
whistling,  and  when  he  was  doing  neither,  and 
the  needle  proved  refractory  in  his  cold  fin- 
gers, he  was  swearing  to  himself.  For  there  was 
no  fire  in  the  room.  The  materials  for  a  fire  were 
there,  and  a  white  tile  stove,  as  cozy  as  an  obelisk 
in  a  cemetery,  stood  in  the  corner.  But  fires 
are  expensive,  and  hardly  necessary  when  one 
sleeps  with  all  one's  windows  open  —  one  win- 

41 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

dow,  to  be  exact,  the  room  being  very  small 
—  and  spends  most  of  the  day  in  a  warm  and 
comfortable  shambles  called  a  hospital. 

To  tell  the  truth  he  was  not  thinking  of  Har- 
mony at  all,  except  subconsciously,  as  instance 
the  button.  He  was  going  over,  step  by  step, 
the  technic  of  an  operation  he  had  seen  that  af- 
ternoon, weighing,  considering,  even  criticizing. 
His  conclusion,  reached  as  he  brushed  back  his 
hair  and  put  away  his  sewing  implements,  was 
somewhat  to  the  effect  that  he  could  have  done  a 
better  piece  of  work  with  his  eyes  shut  and  his 
hands  tied  behind  his  back;  and  that  if  it  were 
not  for  the  wealth  of  material  to  work  on  he  'd 
pack  up  and  go  home.  Which  brought  him  back 
to  Harmony  and  his  new  responsibility.  He  took 
off  the  necktie  he  had  absently  put  on  and 
hunted  out  a  better  one. 

He  was  late  at  supper  —  an  offense  that 
brought  a  scowl  from  the  head  of  the  table,  a 
scowl  that  he  met  with  a  cheerful  smile.  Har- 
mony was  already  in  her  place.  Seated  between 
a  little  Bulgarian  and  a  Jewish  student  from 
GaJicia,  she  was  almost  immediately  struggling 
in  a  sea  of  language,  into  which  she  struck  out 
now  and  then  tentatively,  only  to  be  again  sub- 
merged. Byrne  had  bowed  to  her  convention- 
ally, even  coldly,  aware  of  the  sharp  eyes  and 
tongues  round  the  table,  but  Harmony  did  not 

42 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

understand.  She  had  expected  moral  support 
from  his  presence,  and  failing  that  she  sank 
back  into  the  loneliness  and  depression  of  the 
day.  Her  bright  color  faded;  her  eyes  looked 
tragic  and  rather  aloof.  She  ate  almost  noth- 
ing, and  left  the  table  before  the  others  had 
finished. 

What  curious  little  dramas  of  the  table  are 
played  under  unseeing  eyes!  What  small  trage- 
dies begin  with  the  soup  and  end  with  dessert! 
What  heartaches  with  a  salad!  Small  trag- 
edies of  averted  eyes,  looking  away  from  appeal- 
ing ones;  lips  that  tremble  with  wretchedness 
nibbling  daintily  at  a  morsel;  smiles  that  sear; 
foolish  bits  of  talk  that  mean  nothing  except  ta 
one,  and  to  that  one  everything!  Harmony, 
freezing  at  Peter's  formal  bow  and  gazing  ob- 
stinately ahead  during  the  rest  of  the  meal,  or 
no  nearer  Peter  than  the  red-paper  roses,  and 
Peter,  showering  the  little  Bulgarian  next  to 
her  with  detestable  German  in  the  hope  of  a 
glance.  And  over  all  the  odor  of  cabbage  salad, 
and  the  "Nicht  Rauchen"  sign,  and  an  acrimoni- 
ous discussion  on  eugenics  between  an  American 
woman  doctor  named  Gates  and  a  German 
matron  who  had  had  fifteen  children,  and  whcr 
reduced  every  general  statement  to  a  personal 
insult. 

Peter  followed  Harmony  as  soon  as  he  dared. 
48 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Her  door  was  closed,  and  she  was  playing  very 
softly,  so  as  to  disturb  no  one.  Defiantly,  too, 
had  he  only  known  it,  her  small  chin  up  and  her 
color  high  again;  playing  the  "Humoresque," 
of  all  things,  in  the  hope,  of  course,  that  he  would 
hear  it  and  guess  from  her  choice  the  wild  merri- 
ment of  her  mood.  Peter  rapped  once  or  twice, 
but  obtained  no  answer,  save  that  the  "Hu- 
moresque" rose  a  bit  higher;  and,  Dr.  Gates 
coming  along  the  hall  just  then,  he  was  forced  to 
light  a  cigarette  to  cover  his  pausing. 

Dr.  Gates,  however,  was  not  suspicious.  She 
was  a  smallish  woman  of  forty  or  thereabout, 
with  keen  eyes  behind  glasses  and  a  masculine 
•disregard  of  clothes,  and  she  paused  by  Byrne 
to  let  him  help  her  into  her  ulster. 

"New  girl,  eh?"  she  said,  with  a  birdlike  nod 
toward  the  door.  "Very  gay,  isn't  she,  to  have 
just  finished  a  supper  like  that !  Honestly,  Peter, 
what  are  we  going  to  do?" 

"  Growl  and  stay  on,  as  we  have  for  six  months. 
There  is  better  food,  but  not  for  our  terms." 

Dr.  Gates  sighed,  and  picking  a  soft  felt  hat 
from  the  table  put  it  on  with  a  single  jerk  down 
over  her  hair. 

"Oh,  darn  money,  anyhow!"  she  said.  "Come 
and  walk  to  the  corner  with  me.  I  have  a 
lecture." 

Peter  promised  to  follow  in  a  moment,  and 

44 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

hurried  back  to  his  room.  There,  on  a  page  from 
one  of  his  lecture  notebooks,  he  wrote :  - 

"Are   you   ill?     Or   have   I   done   anything: 

"P.  B." 

This  with  great  care  he  was  pushing  under 
Harmony's  door  when  the  little  Bulgarian  came 
along  and  stopped,  smiling.  He  said  nothing, 
nor  did  Peter,  who  rose  and  dusted  his  knees. 
The  little  Bulgarian  spoke  no  English  and  little 
German.  Between  them  was  the  wall  of  lan- 
guage. But  higher  than  this  barrier  was  the 
understanding  of  their  common  sex.  He  held 
out  his  hand,  still  smiling,  and  Peter,  grinning 
sheepishly,  took  it.  Then  he  followed  the 
woman  doctor  down  the  stairs. 

To  say  that  Peter  Byrne  was  already  in  love 
with  Harmony  would  be  absurd.  She  attracted 
him,  as  any  beautiful  and  helpless  girl  attracts 
an  unattracted  man.  He  was  much  more  con- 
cerned, now  that  he  feared  he  had  offended  her, 
than  he  would  have  been  without  this  fillip 
to  his  interest.  But  even  his  concern  did  not 
prevent  his  taking  copious  and  intelligent  notes 
at  his  lecture  that  night,  or  interfere  with  his 
enjoyment  of  the  Stein  of  beer  with  which,  after 
it  was  over,  he  washed  down  its  involved 
German. 

The  engagement  at  Stewart's  irked  him  some- 
45 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

what.  He  did  not  approve  of  Stewart  exactly, 
not  from  any  dislike  of  the  man,  but  from  a  lack 
of  fineness  in  the  man  himself  —  an  intangible 
thing  that  seems  to  be  a  matter  of  that  unfash- 
ionable essence,  the  soul,  as  against  the  clay; 
of  the  thing  contained,  by  an  inverse  metonymy, 
for  the  container. 

Boyer,  a  nerve  man  from  Texas,  met  him 
on  the  street,  and  they  walked  to  Stewart's 
apartment  together.  The  frosty  air  and  the 
rapid  exercise  combined  to  drive  away  Byrne's 
irritation;  that,  and  the  recollection  that  it  was 
Saturday  night  and  that  to-morrow  there  would 
be  no  clinics,  no  lectures,  no  operations ;  that 
the  great  shambles  would  be  closed  down  and 
that  priests  would  read  mass  to  convalescents 
in  the  chapels.  He  was  whistling  as  he  walked 
along. 

Boyer,  a  much  older  man,  whose  wife  had 
<;ome  over  with  him,  stopped  under  a  street 
light  to  consult  his  watch. 

"Almost  ten!"  he  said.  "I  hope  you  don't 
mind,  Byrne;  but  I  told  Jennie  I  was  going  to 
your  pension.  She  detests  Stewart." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  She  knows  you're 
playing  poker?" 

"Yes.  She  doesn't  object  to  poker.  It's  the 
other.  You  can't  make  a  good  woman  under- 
stand that  sort  of  thing." 

46 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Thank  God  for  that!" 

After  a  moment  of  silence  Byrne  took  up  his 
whistling  again.  It  was  the  "Humoresque." 

Stewart's  apartment  was  on  the  third  floor. 
Admission  at  that  hour  was  to  be  gained  only  by 
ringing,  and  Boyer  touched  the  bell.  The  lights 
were  still  on,  however,  in  the  hallways,  revealing 
not  overclean  stairs  and,  for  a  wonder,  an  electric 
elevator.  This,  however,  a  card  announced  as 
out  of  order.  Boyer  stopped  and  examined  the 
card  grimly. 

"  'Out  of  order'!"  he  observed.  "Out  of 
order  since  last  spring,  judging  by  that  card. 
Vorwarts!" 

They  climbed  easily,  deliberately.  At  home  in 
God's  country  Boyer  played  golf,  as  became  the 
leading  specialist  of  his  county.  Byrne,  with  a 
driving-arm  like  the  rod  of  a  locomotive,  had 
been  obliged  to  forswear  the  more  expensive 
game  for  tennis,  with  a  resulting  muscular  de- 
velopment that  his  slight  stoop  belied.  He 
was  as  hard  as  nails,  without  an  ounce  of  fat, 
and  he  climbed  the  long  steep  flights  with  an 
elasticity  that  left  even  Boyer  a  step  or  so 
behind. 

Stewart  opened  the  door  himself,  long  German 
pipe  in  hand,  his  coat  replaced  by  a  worn  smok- 
ing-jacket.  The  little  apartment  was  thick 
with  smoke,  and  from  a  room  on  the  right  came 

47 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

the  click  of  chips  and  the  sound  of  beer  mugs  on 
wood. 

Marie,  restored  to  good  humor,  came  out  to 
greet  them,  and  both  men  bowed  ceremoniously 
over  her  hand,  clicking  their  heels  together  and 
bowing  from  the  waist.  Byrne  sniffed. 

"What  do  I  smell,  Marie?"  he  demanded. 
"Surely  not  sausages!" 

Marie  dimpled.  It  was  an  old  joke,  to  be 
greeted  as  one  greets  an  old  friend.  It  was  al- 
ways sausages. 

"Sausages,  of  a  truth  —  fat  ones." 

"But  surely  not  with  mustard?" 

"Ach,  ja  —  englisch  mustard." 

Stewart  and  Boyer  had  gone  on  ahead.  Marie 
laid  a  detaining  hand  on  Byrne's  arm. 

"I  was  very  angry  with  you  to-day." 

"With  me?" 

Like  the  others  who  occasionally  gathered 
in  Stewart's  unconventional  menage,  Byrne  had 
adopted  Stewart's  custom  of  addressing  Marie 
in  English,  while  she  replied  in  her  own  tongue. 

"  Ja.  I  wished  but  to  see  nearer  the  American 
Fraulein's  hat,  and  you  -  She  is  rich,  so?" 

"I  really  don't  know.   I  think  not." 

"And  good?" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

Marie  was  small;  she  stood,  her  head  back, 
her  eyes  narrowed,  looking  up  at  Byrne.  There 

48 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

was  nothing  evil  in  her  face,  it  was  not  even 
hard.  Rather,  there  was  a  sort  of  weariness,  as 
of  age  and  experience.  She  had  put  on  a  white 
dress,  cut  out  at  the  neck,  and  above  her  collar- 
bones were  small,  cuplike  hollows.  She  was 
very  thin. 

"I  was  sad  to-night,"  she  said  plaintively. 
"I  wished  to  jump  out  the  window." 

Byrne  was  startled,  but  the  girl  was  smiling 
at  the  recollection. 

"And  I  made  you  feel  like  that?" 

"Not  you  —  the  other  Fraulein.  I  was  dirt 
to  her.  I  -  She  stopped  tragically,  then 
sniffled. 

"The  sausages!"  she  cried,  and  gathering 
up  her  skirts  ran  toward  the  kitchen.  Byrne 
went  on  into  the  sitting-room. 

Stewart  was  a  single  man  spending  two  years 
in  post-graduate  work  in  Germany  and  Austria, 
not  so  much  because  the  Germans  and  Austrians 
could  teach  what  could  not  be  taught  at  home, 
but  because  of  the  wealth  of  clinical  material. 
The  great  European  hospitals,  filled  to  over- 
flowing, offered  unlimited  choice  of  cases.  The 
contempt  for  human  life  of  overpopulated  cities, 
coupled  with  the  extreme  poverty  and  help- 
lessness of  the  masses,  combined  to  form  that 
tragic  part  of  the  world  which  dies  that  others 
may  live. 

49 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Stewart,  like  Byrne,  was  doing  surgery,  and 
the  very  Jack  of  fineness  which  Byrne  felt  in 
the  man  promised  something  in  his  work,  a  sort 
of  ruthlessness,  a  singleness  of  purpose,  good  or 
bad,  an  overwhelming  egotism  that  in  his  pro- 
fession might  only  be  a  necessary  self-reliance. 

His  singleness  of  purpose  had,  at  the  begin- 
ning of  his  residence  in  Vienna,  devoted  itself 
to  making  him  comfortable.  With  the  narrow 
means  at  his  control  he  had  the  choice  of  two 
alternatives:  To  live,  as  Byrne  was  living,  in  a 
third-class  pension,  stewing  in  summer,  freezing 
in  winter,  starving  always;  or  the  alternative 
he  had  chosen. 

The  Stewart  apartment  had  only  three  rooms, 
but  it  possessed  that  luxury  of  luxuries,  a  bath. 
It  was  not  a  bath  in  the  usual  sense  of  water 
on  tap,  and  shining  nickel  plate,  but  a  bath  for 
all  that,  where  with  premeditation  and  fore- 
thought one  might  bathe.  The  room  had  once 
been  a  fuel  and  store  room,  but  now  boasted 
a  tin  tub  and  a  stove  with  a  reservoir  on  top, 
where  water  might  be  heated  to  the  boiling 
point,  at  the  same  time  bringing  up  the  atmos- 
phere to  a  point  where  the  tin  tub  sizzled  if 
one  touched  it. 

Behind  the  bathroom  a  tiny  kitchen  with  a 
brick  stove;  next,  a  bedroom;  the  whole  in- 
credibly neat.  Along  one  side  of  the  wall  a 

50 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

clothespress,  which  the  combined  wardrobes  of 
two  did  not  fill.  And  beyond  that  again,  opening 
through  an  arch  with  a  dingy  chenille  curtain, 
the  sitting-room,  now  in  chaotic  disorder. 

Byrne  went  directly  to  the  sitting-room. 
There  were  four  men  already  there:  Stewart 
and  Boyer,  a  pathology  man  named  Wallace 
Hunter,  doing  research  work  at  the  general 
hospital,  and  a  young  piano  student  from 
Tennessee  named  MacLean.  The  cards  had 
been  already  dealt,  and  Byrne  stood  by  wait- 
ing for  the  hand  to  be  played. 

The  game  was  a  small  one,  as  befitted  the 
means  of  the  majority.  It  was  a  regular  Satur- 
day night  affair,  as  much  a  custom  as  the  beer 
that  sat  in  Steins  on  the  floor  beside  each  man, 
or  as  Marie's  boiled  Wiener  sausages. 

The  blue  chips  represented  a  Krone,  the 
white  ones  five  Hellers.  MacLean,  who  was 
hardly  more  than  a  boy,  was  winning,  drawing 
in  chips  with  quick  gestures  of  his  long  pianist's 
fingers. 

Byrne  sat  down  and  picked  up  his  cards, 
Stewart  was  staying  out,  and  so,  after  a  glance, 
did  he.  The  other  three  drew  cards  and  fell 
to  betting.  Stewart  leaned  back  and  filled  his 
long  pipe,  and  after  a  second's  hesitation  Byrne 
turned  to  him. 

"I  don't  know  just  what  to  say,  Stewart," 
51 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

he    began   in   an   undertone.     "I  'm    sorry.     I 
did  n't  want  to  hurt  Marie,  but  - 

"Oh,  that's  all  right."  Stewart  drew  at  his 
pipe  and  bent  forward  to  watch  the  game 
with  an  air  of  ending  the  discussion. 

"Not  at  all.    I  did  hurt  her  and  I  want  to 
explain.   Marie  has  been  kind  to  me,  and  I  like ' 
her.   You  know  that." 

"Don't  be  an  ass!"  Stewart  turned  on  him 
sharply.  "Marie  is  a  little  fool,  that's  all. 
I  did  n't  know  it  was  an  American  girl." 

Byrne  played  in  bad  luck.  His  mind  was  not 
on  the  cards.  He  stayed  out  of  the  last  hand, 
and  with  a  cigarette  wandered  about  the  room. 
He  glanced  into  the  tidy  bedroom  and  beyond, 
to  where  Marie  hovered  over  the  stove. 

She  turned  and  saw  him. 

"Come,"  she  called.  "Watch  the  supper  for 
me  while  I  go  down  for  more  beer." 

"But  no,"  he  replied,  imitating  her  tone. 
"Watch  the  supper  for  me  while  I  go  down  for 
more  beer." 

"I  love  thee,"  she  called  merrily.  "Tell  the 
Herr  Doktor  I  love  thee.  And  here  is  the 
pitcher." 

When  he  returned  the  supper  was  already 
laid  in  the  little  kitchen.  The  cards  were  put 
away,  and  young  MacLean  and  Wallace  Hunter 
were  replacing  the  cover  and  the  lamp  on  the 

52 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

card-table.   Stewart  was  orating  from  a  pinnacle 
of  proprietorship. 

"Exactly,"  he  was  saying,  in  reply  to  some- 
thing gone  before;  "I  used  to  come  here  Satur- 
day nights  —  used  to  come  early  and  take  a 
bath.  Worthington  had  rented  it  furnished  for 
a  song.  Used  to  sit  in  a  corner  and  envy  Worth- 
ington his  bathtub,  and  that  lamp  there,  and 
decent  food,  and  a  bed  that  'did  n't  suffer  from 
necrosis  in  the  center.  Then  when  he  was  called 
home  I  took  it." 
/'Girl  and  all,  was  n't  it?" 

"Girl  and  all.  Old  Worth  said  she  was 
straight,  and,  by  Jove,  she  is.  He  came  back 
last  fall  on  his  wedding  trip  —  he  married  a 
wealthy  girl  and  came  to  see  us.  I  was  out,  but 
Marie  was  here.  There  was  the  deuce  to  pay." 

He  lowered  his  voice.  The  men  had  gathered 
about  him  in  a  group. 

"Jealous,  eh?"   from  Hunter. 

"Jealous?  No!  He  tried  to  kiss  her  and  she 
hit  him  —  said  he  did  n't  respect  her!" 

"It's  a  curious  code  of  honor,"  said  Boyer 
thoughtfully.  And  indeed  to  none  but  Stewart 
did  it  seem  amusing.  This  little  girl  of  the  streets, 
driven  by  God  knows  what  necessity  to  make 
her  own  code  and,  having  made  it,  living  up  to 
it  with  every  fiber  of  her. 

"Bitte    sum    speisen!"    called    Marie    gayly 
53 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

from  her  brick  stove,  and  the  men  trooped  out 
to  the  kitchen. 

The  supper  was  spread  on  the  table,  with  the 
pitcher  of  beer  in  the  center.  There  were  Swiss 
cheese  and  cold  ham  and  rolls,  and  above  all 
sausages  and  mustard.  Peter  drank  a  great  deal 
of  beer,  as  did  the  others,  and  sang  German  songs 
with  a  frightful  accent  and  much  vigor  and  sen- 
timent, as  also  did  the  others. 

Then  he  went  back  to  the  cold  room  in  the 
Pension  Schwarz,  and  told  himself  he  was  a  fool 
to  live  alone  when  one  could  live  like  a  prince 
for  the  same  sum  properly  laid  out.  He  dropped 
into  the  hollow  center  of  his  bed,  where  his  big 
figure  fitted  as  comfortably  as  though  it  lay  in 
a  washtub,  and  before  his  eyes  there  came  a 
vision  of  Stewart's  flat  and  the  slippers  by  the 
fire  —  which  was  eminently  human. 

However,  a  moment  later  he  yawned,  and 
said  aloud,  with  considerable  vigor,  that  he  'd 
be  damned  if  he  would  —  which  was  eminently 
Peter  Byrne.  Almost  immediately,  with  the 
bed  coverings,  augmented  by  his  overcoat, 
drawn  snug  to  his  chin,  and  the  better  necktie 
swinging  from  the  gas  jet  in  the  air  from  the 
opened  window,  Peter  was  asleep.  For  four 
hours  he  had  entirely  forgotten  Harmony. 


54 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  peace  of  a  gray  Sunday  morning  hung 
like  a  cloud  over  the  little  Pension  Schwarz. 
In  the  kitchen  the  elderly  maid,  with  a  shawl 
over  her  shoulders  and  stiffened  fingers,  made 
the  fire,  while  in  the  dining-room  the  little 
chambermaid  cut  butter  and  divided  it  sparingly 
among  a  dozen  breakfast  trays  —  on  each  tray 
two  hard  rolls,  a  butter  pat,  a  plate,  a  cup. 
On  two  trays  Olga,  with  a  glance  over  her 
shoulder,  placed  two  butter  pats.  The  mistress 
yet  slept,  but  in  the  kitchen  Katrina  had  a  keen 
eye  for  butter  —  and  a  hard  heart. 

Katrina  came  to  the  door. 

"The  hot  water  is  ready,"  she  announced. 
**And  the  coffee  also.  Hast  thou  been  to  mass?" 

"Ja." 

"That  is  a  lie."  This  quite  on  general  prin- 
ciple, it  being  one  of  the  cook's  small  tyrannies 
to  exact  religious  observance  from  her  under- 
ling, and  one  of  Olga's  Sunday  morning's  indul- 
gences to  oversleep  and  avoid  the  mass.  Olga 
took  the  accusation  meekly  and  without  reply, 
being  occupied  at  that  moment  in  standing 
between  Katrina  and  the  extra  pats  of  butter. 

55 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"For  the  lie,"  said  Katrina  calmly,  "thott 
shall  have  no  butter  this  morning.  There,  the 
Herr  Doktor  rings  for  water.  Get  it,  wicked 
one!" 

Katrina  turned  slowly  in  the  doorway. 

"The  new  Fraulein  is  American?" 

"Ja." 

Katrina  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Then  I  shall  put  more  water  to  heat,"  she 
said  resignedly.  "The  Americans  use  much 
water.  God  knows  it  cannot  be  healthy!" 

Olga  filled  her  pitcher  from  the  great  copper 
kettle  and  stood  with  it  poised  in  her  thin 
young  arms. 

"The  new  Fraulein  is  very  beautiful,"  she 
continued  aloud.  "Thinkest  thou  it  is  the  hot 
water?" 

"Is  an  egg  more  beautiful  for  being  boiled?" 
demanded  Katrina.  "Go,  and  be  less  foolish. 
See,  it  is  not  the  Herr  Doktor  who  rings,  but 
the  new  American." 

Olga  carried  her  pitcher  to  Harmony's  door, 
and  being  bidden,  entered.  The  room  was 
frigid  and  Harmony,  at  the  window  in  her 
nightgown,  was  closing  the  outer  casement. 
The  inner  still  swung  open.  Olga,  having  put 
down  her  pitcher,  shivered. 

"Surely  the  Fraulein  has  not  slept  with  open 
windows?" 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Always    with    open    windows."     Harmony 
having  secured  the  inner  casement,  was  wrap 
ping  herself  in  the  blue  silk  kimono  with  the 
faded  butterflies.    Merely  to  look  at  it  made 
Olga  shiver  afresh.    She  shook  her  head. 

"But  the  air  of  the  night,"  she  said,  "it  is 
full  of  mists  and  illnesses !  Will  you  have  break- 
fast now?" 

"In  ten  minutes,  after  I  have  bathed." 

Olga  having  put  a  match  to  the  stove  went 
back  to  the  kitchen,  shaking  her  head. 

"They  are  strange,  the  Americans!"  she  said 
to  Katrina.  "And  if  to  be  lovely  one  must 
bathe  daily,  and  sleep  with  open  windows  - 

Harmony  had  slept  soundly  after  all.  Her 
pique  at  Byrne  had  passed  with  the  reading  of 
his  note,  and  the  sensation  of  his  protection  and 
nearness  had  been  almost  physical.  In  the 
virginal  little  apartment  in  the  lodge  of  Maria 
Theresa  the  only  masculine  presence  had  been 
that  of  the  Portier,  carrying  up  coals  at  ninety 
Hellers  a  bucket,  or  of  the  accompanist  who 
each  alternate  day  had  played  for  the  Big 
Soprano  to  practice.  And  they  had  felt  no 
deprivation,  except  for  those  occasional  times 
when  Scatchy  developed  a  reckless  wish  to 
see  the  interior  of  a  dancing-hall  or  one 
of  the  little  theaters  that  opened  after  the 
ooera. 

57 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

But,  as  calmly  as  though  she  had  never  argued 
alone  with  a  cabman  or  disputed  the  bill  at  the 
delicatessen  shop,  Harmony  had  thrown  herself 
on  the  protection  of  this  shabby  big  American 
whom  she  had  met  but  once,  and,  having  done 
so,  slept  like  a  baby.  Not,  of  course,  that  she 
realized  her  dependence.  She  had  felt  very  old 
and  experienced  and  exceedingly  courageous 
as  she  put  out  her  light  the  night  before  and 
took  a  flying  leap  into  the  bed.  She  wTas  still 
old  and  experienced,  if  a  trifle  less  courageous, 
that  Sunday  morning. 

Promptly  in  ten  minutes  Olga  brought  the 
breakfast,  two  rolls,  two  pats  of  butter  — 
shades  of  the  sleeping  mistress  and  Katrina 
the  thrifty  —  and  a  cup  of  coffee.  On  the  tray 
was  a  bit  of  paper  torn  from  a  notebook :  - 

"Part  of  the  prescription  is  an  occasional 
walk  in  good  company.  Will  you  walk  with  me 
this  afternoon?  I  would  come  in  person  to  ask 
you,  but  am  spending  the  morning  in  my  bath- 
robe, while  my  one  remaining  American  suit  is 
being  pressed. 

"P.  B." 

Harmony  got  the  ink  and  her  pen  from  her 
trunk  and  wrote  below :  — 

"You  are  very  kind  to  me.   Yes,  indeed. 

"H.  W." 

58 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

When  frequent  slamming  of  doors  and 
along  the  passageway  told  Harmony  that  the 
pension  was  fully  awake,  she  got  out  her  violin. 
The  idea  of  work  obsessed  her.  To-morrow 
there  would  be  the  hunt  for  something  to  do  to 
supplement  her  resources,  this  afternoon  she 
had  rashly  promised  to  walk.  The  morning, 
then,  must  be  given  up  to  work.  But  after  all 
she  did  little. 

For  an  hour,  perhaps,  she  practiced.  The  little 
Bulgarian  paused  outside  her  door  and  listened, 
rapt,  his  eyes  closed.  Peter  Byrne,  listening 
while  he  sorted  lecture  memoranda  at  his  little 
table  in  bathrobe  and  slippers,  absently  filed 
the  little  note  with  the  others  —  where  he  came 
across  it  months  later  —  next  to  a  lecture  on 
McBurney's  Point,  and  spent  a  sad  hour  or 
so  over  it.  Over  all  the  sordid  little  pension, 
with  its  odors  of  food  and  stale  air,  its  spotted 
napery  and  dusty  artificial  flowers,  the  music 
hovered,  and  made  for  the  time  all  things  lovely. 

In  her  room  across  from  Harmony's,  Anna 
Gates  was  sewing,  or  preparing  to  sew.  Her 
hair  in  a  knob,  her  sleeves  rolled  up,  the  room 
in  violent  disorder,  she  was  bending  over  the 
bed,  cutting  savagely  at  a  roll  of  pink  flannel. 
Because  she  was  working  with  curved  surgeon's 
scissors,  borrowed  from  Peter,  the  cut  edges 
were  strangely  scalloped.  Her  method  as  well 

59 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

as  her  tools  was  unique.  Clearly  she  was  intent 
on  a  body  garment,  for  now  and  then  she  picked 
up  the  flannel  and  held  it  to  her.  Having  thus. 
as  one  may  say,  got  the  line  of  the  thing,  she 
proceeded  to  cut  again,  jaw  tight  set,  small 
veins  on  her  forehead  swelling,  a  small  replica 
of  Peter  Byrne  sewing  a  button  on  his  coat. 

After  a  time  it  became  clear  to  her  that  her 
method  was  wrong.  She  rolled  up  the  flannel 
viciously  and  flung  it  into  a  corner,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  her  Sunday  morning  occupation  of 
putting  away  the  garments  she  had  worn  during 
the  week,  a  vast  and  motley  collection. 

On  the  irritability  of  her  mood  Harmony's 
music  had  a  late  but  certain  effect.  She  m^de 
a  toilet,  a  trifle  less  casual  than  usual,  set^ng 
that  she  put  on  her  stays,  and  rather  sheepishly 
picked  up  the  bundle  from  the  corner.  She 
hunted  about  for  a  thimble,  being  certain  she 
had  brought  one  from  home  a  year  before,  but 
failed  to  find  it.  And  finally,  bundle  under  her 
arm  and  smiling,  she  knocked  at  Harmony's 
door. 

"Would  you  mind  letting  me  sit  with  you?" 
she  asked.  "I'll  not  stir.  I  want  to  sew,  and 
my  room  is  such  a  mess!" 

Harmony  threw  the  door  wide.  :'You  will 
make  me  very  happy,  if  only  my  practicing 
does  not  disturb  you." 

60 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Dr.  Gates  came  in  and  closed  the  door. 

"  I  '11  probably  be  the  disturbing  element," 
she  said.  "I'm  a  noisy  sewer." 

Harmony's  immaculate  room  and  radiant 
person  put  her  in  good  humor  immediately. 
She  borrowed  a  thimble  —  not  because  she 
cared  whether  she  had  one  or  not,  but  because 
she  knew  a  thimble  was  a  part  of  the  game  - 
and  settled  herself  in  a  corner,  her  ragged  pieces 
in  her  lap.  Foi  an  hour  she  plodded  along  and 
Harmony  played.  Then  the  girl  put  down  her 
bow  and  turned  to  the  corner.  The  little  doctor 
was  jerking  at  a  knot  in  her  thread. 

"It's  in  the  most  damnable  knot!"  she  said, 
and  Harmony  was  suddenly  awrare  that  she  was 
crying,  and  heartily  ashamed  of  it. 

"Please  don't  pay  any  attention  to  me,"  she 
implored.  "I  hate  to  sew.  That's  the  trouble. 
Or  perhaps  it's  not  all  the  trouble.  I'm  a  fool 
about  music." 

"Perhaps,  if  you  hate  to  sew  - 

"I  hate  a  good  many  things,  my  dear,  when 
you  play  like  that.  I  hate  being  over  here  in  this 
place,  and  I  hate  fleas  and  German  cooking  and 
clinics,  and  I  hate  being  forty  years  old  and  as 
poor  as  a  church-mouse  and  as  ugly  as  sin,  and 
I  hate  never  having  had  any  children!" 

Harmony  was  very  uncomfortable  and  just 
a  little  shocked.  But  the  next  moment  Dr. 

61 


Gates  had  wiped  her  eyes  with  a  scrap  of  the 
flannel  and  was  smiling  up  through  her  glasses. 

"The  plain  truth  really  is  that  I  have  in- 
digestion. I  dare  say  I  'm  really  weeping  in  anti- 
cipation over  the  Sunday  dinner!  The  food's 
bad  and  I  can't  afford  to  live  anywhere  else. 
I  'd  take  a  room  and  do  my  own  cooking,  but 
what  time  have  I?"  She  spread  out  the  pieces 
of  flannel  on  her  knee.  "Does  this  look  like 
anything  to  you?" 

"A  petticoat,  is  n't  it?" 

"I  didn't  intend  it  as  a  petticoat." 

"  I  thought,  on  account  of  the  scallops  - 

"Scallops!"  Dr.  Gates  gazed  at  the  painfully 
cut  pink  edges  and  from  them  to  Harmony. 
Then  she  laughed,  peal  after  peal  of  joyous 
mirth. 

"Scallops!"  she  gasped  at  last.  "Oh,  my 
dear,  if  you  'd  seen  me  cutting  'em !  And  with 
Peter  Byrne's  scissors!" 

Now  here  at  last  they  were  on  common 
ground.  Harmony,  delicately  flushed,  repeated 
the  name,  clung  to  it  conversationally,  using 
little  adroitnesses  to  bring  the  talk  back  to 
him.  All  roads  of  talk  led  to  Peter  —  Peter's 
future,  Peter's  poverty,  Peter's  refusing  to  have 
his  hair  cut,  Peter's  encounter  with  a  major  of 
the  guards,  and  the  duel  Peter  almost  fought. 
It  developed  that  Peter,  as  the  challenged,  had 

62 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

had  the  choice  of  weapons,  and  had  chosen 
fists,  and  that  the  major  had  been  carried  away. 
Dr.  Gates  grew  rather  weary  of  Peter  at  last 
and  fell  back  on  the  pink  flannel.  She  con- 
fided to  Harmony  that  the  various  pieces, 
united,  were  to  make  a  dressing-gown  for  a 
little  American  boy  at  the  hospital.  "Al- 
though," she  commented,  "it  looks  more  like  a 
chair  cover." 

Harmony  offered  to  help  her,  and  got  out  a 
sewing-box  that  was  lined  with  a  piece  of  her 
mother's  wedding  dress.  And  as  she  straight- 
ened the  crooked  edges  she  told  the  doctor  about 
the  wedding  dress,  and  about  the  mother  who 
had  called  her  Harmony  because  of  the  hope  in 
her  heart.  And  soon,  by  dint  of  skillful  listen- 
ing, which  is  always  better  than  questioning, 
the  faded  little  woman  doctor  knew  all  the 
story. 

She  was  rather  aghast. 

"But  suppose  you  cannot  find  anything  to 
do?" 

"I  must,"  simply. 

"It's  such  a  terrible  city  for  a  girl  alone/' 

"I'm  not  really  alone.    I  know  you  now." 

"An  impoverished  spinster!  Much  help  I 
shall  be!" 

"And  there  is  Peter  Byrne." 

"Peter!"  Dr.  Gates  sniffed.  "Peter  is  poorer 
63 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

than  I  am,  if  there  is  any  comparison  in  desti- 
tution!" 

Harmony  stiffened  a  trifle. 

"Of  course  I  do  not  mean  money,"  she  said. 
"  There  are  such  things  as  encouragement,  and 
—  and  friendliness." 

"One  cannot  eat  encouragement,"  retorted 
Dr.  Gates  sagely.  "And  friendliness  between 
you  and  any  man  —  bah !  Even  Peter  is  only 
human,  my  dear." 

"I  am  sure  he  is  very  good." 

"So  he  is.  He  is  very  poor.  But  you  are 
very  attractive.  There,  I  'm  a  skeptic  about 
men,  but  you  can  trust  Peter.  Only  don't  fall 
in  love  with  him.  It  will  be  years  before  he 
can  marry.  And  don't  let  him  fall  in  love  with 
you.  He  probably  will." 

Whereupon  Dr.  Gates  taking  herself  and  her 
pink  flannel  off  to  prepare  for  lunch,  Harmony 
sent  a  formal  note  to'  Peter  Byrne,  regretting 
that  a  headache  kept  her  from  taking  the 
afternoon  walk  as  she  had  promised.  Also, 
to  avoid  meeting  him,  she  did  without  dinner. 
and  spent  the  afternoon  crying  herself  into  a 
headache  that  was  real  enough. 

Anna  Gates  was  no  fool.  While  she  made  her 
few  preparations  for  dinner  she  repented  bitterly 
what  she  had  said  to  Harmony.  It  is  difficult 
for  the  sophistry  of  forty  to  remember  and  cher- 

64 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

ish  the  innocence  of  twenty.  For  illusions  it  is 
apt  to  substitute  facts,  the  material  for  the 
spiritual,  the  body  against  the  soul.  Dr.  Gates, 
from  her  school  of  general  practice,  had  come 
to  view  life  along  physiological  lines. 

With  her  customary  frankness  she  approached 
Peter  after  the  meal. 

"I've  been  making  mischief,  Peter.  I  have 
been  talking  too  much,  as  usual." 

"Certainly  not  about  me,  Doctor.  Out  of 
my  blameless  life  - 

"About  you,  as  a  representative  member  of 
your  sex.  I  'm  a  fool." 

Peter  looked  serious.  He  had  put  on  the  newly 
pressed  suit  and  his  best  tie,  and  was  looking 
distinguished  and  just  now  rather  stern. 

"To  whom?" 

"To  the  young  Wells  person.  Frankly,  Peter, 
I  dare  say  at  this  moment  she  thinks  you  are 
everything  you  should  n't  be,  because  I  said 
you  were  only  human.  Why  it  should  be  evil 
to  be  human,  or  human  to  be  evil  - 

"I  cannot  imagine,"  said  Peter  slowly,  "the 
reason  for  any  conversation  about  me." 

"Nor  I,  when  I  look  back.  We  seemed  to 
talk  about  other  things,  but  it  always  ended  with 
you.  Perhaps  you  were  our  one  subject  in 
common.  Then  she  irritated  me  by  her  calm 
confidence.  The  world  was  good,  everybody 

65 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

good.  She  would  find  a  safe  occupation  and  all 
would  be  well." 

"So  you  warned  her  against  me,"  said  Peter 
grimly. 

"I  told  her  you  were  human  and  that  she  was 
attractive.  Shall  I  make  'way  with  myself?" 

"Cui  bono?"  demanded  Peter,  smiling  in 
spite  of  himself.  "The  mischief  is  done." 

Dr.  Gates  looked  up  at  him. 

"I'm  in  love  with  you  myself,  Peter!"  she 
said  gratefully.  "Perhaps  it  is  the  tie.  Did  you 
ever  eat  such  a  meal?" 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  VERY  pale  and  dispirited  Harmony  it 
was  who  bathed  her  eyes  in  cold  water 
that  evening  and  obeyed  little  Olga's  "Bitte 
zum  speisen."  The  chairs  round  the  dining- 
table  were  only  half  occupied  —  a  free  concert 
had  taken  some,  Sunday  excursions  others. 
The  little  Bulgarian,  secretly  considered  to 
be  a  political  spy,  was  never  about  on 
this  one  evening  of  the  week.  Rumor  had 
it  that  on  these  evenings,  secreted  in  an 
attic  room  far  off  in  the  sixteenth  district,  he 
wrote  and  sent  off  reports  of  what  he  had 
learned  during  the  week  —  his  gleanings  from 
near-by  tables  in  coffee-houses  or  from  the 
indiscreet  hours  after  midnight  in  the  cafe, 
where  the  Austrian  military  was  wont  to  gather 
and  drink. 

Into  the  empty  chair  beside  Harmony  Peter 
slid  his  long  figure,  and  met  a  tremulous  bow 
and  silence.  From  the  head  of  the  table  Frau 
Schwarz  was  talking  volubly  —  as  if,  by  mere 
sound,  to  distract  attention  from  the  scantiness 
of  the  meal.  Under  cover  of  the  Babel  Peter 
spoke  to  the  girl.  Having  had  his  warning  his 

67 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

tone  was  friendly,  without  a  hint  of  the  intimacy 
of  the  day  before. 

"Better?" 

"Not  entirely.    Somewhat." 

"I  wish  you  had  sent  Olga  to  me  for  some 
tablets.  No  one  needs  to  suffer  from  head- 
ache, when  five  grains  or  so  of  powder  will 
help  them." 

"I  am  afraid  of  headache  tablets." 

"Not  when  your  physician  prescribes  them, 
I  hope!" 

This  was  the  right  note.  Harmony  brightened 
a  little.  After  all,  what  had  she  to  do  with  the 
man  himself?  He  had  constituted  himself  her 
physician.  That  was  all. 

"The  next  time  I  shall  send  Olga." 

"Good!"  he  responded  heartily;  and  pro- 
ceeded to  make  such  a  meal  as  he  might,  talk- 
ing little,  and  nursing,  by  a  careful  indifference, 
her  new-growing  confidence. 

It  was  when  he  had  pushed  his  plate  away  and 
lighted  a  cigarette  —  according  to  the  custom 
of  the  pension,  which  accorded  the  "Nicht 
Rauchen"  sign  the  same  attention  that  it  did 
to  the  portrait  of  the  deceased  Herr  Schwarz  — 
that  he  turned  to  her  again. 

"I  am  sorry  you  are  not  able  to  walk.  It 
promises  a  nice  night." 

Peter  was  clever.  Harmony,  expecting  an  in- 

68 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

vitation  to  walk,  had  nerved  herself  to  a  cool 
refusal.   This  took  her  off  guard. 

"Then  you  do  not  prescribe  air?" 

"That's  up  to  how  you  feel.  If  you  care  to  go 
out  and  don't  mind  my  going  along  as  a  sort 
of  Old  Dog  Tray  I  have  n't  anything  else  to 
do." 

Dr.  Gates,  eating  stewed  fruit  across  the 
table,  gave  Peter  a  swift  glance  of  admiration, 
which  he  caught  and  acknowledged.  He  was 
rather  exultant  himself;  certainly  he  had  been 
adroit. 

"I'd  rather  like  a  short  walk.  It  will  make 
me  sleep,"  said  Harmony,  who  had  missed  the 
by -play.  "And  Old  Dog  Tray  would  be  a  very 
nice  companion,  I'm  sure." 

It  is  doubtful,  however,  if  Anna  Gates  would 
have  applauded  Peter  had  she  followed  the 
two  in  their  rambling  walk  that  night.  Direction 
mattering  little  and  companionship  every- 
thing, they  wandered  on,  talking  of  immaterial 
things  —  of  the  rough  pavements,  of  the  shop 
windows,  of  the  gray  mediaeval  buildings.  They 
came  to  a  full  stop  in  front  of  the  Votivkirche, 
and  discussed  gravely  the  twin  Gothic  spires 
and  the  Benk  sculptures  on  the  facade.  And 
there  in  the  open  square,  casting  diplomacy  to 
the  winds,  Peter  Byrne  turned  to  Harmony  and 
blurted  out  what  was  in  his  heart. 

69 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "you  don't  care  a  rap 
about  spires.  I  don't  believe  you  know  anything 
about  them.  I  don't.  What  did  that  idiot  of 
a  woman  doctor  say  to  you  to-day?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"You  do  very  well.  And  I'm  going  to  set 
you  right.  She  starts  out  with  two  premises: 
I  'm  a  man,  and  you  're  young  and  attractive. 
Then  she  draws  some  sort  of  fool  deduction. 
You  know  what  I  mean?" 

"I  don't  see  why  we  need  discuss  it,"  said 
poor  Harmony.  "Or  how  you  know  - 

"I  know  because  she  told  me.  She  knew  she 
had  been  a  fool,  and  she  came  to  me.  I  don't 
know  whether  it  makes  any  difference  to  you 
or  not,  but  —  we  'd  started  out  so  well,  and  then 
to  have  it  spoiled !  My  dear  girl,  you  are  beau- 
tiful and  I  know  it.  That 's  all  the  more  reason 
why,  if  you  '11  stand  for  it,  you  need  some  one  to 
look  after  you  —  I  '11  not  say  like  a  brother, 
because  all  the  ones  I  ever  knew  were  darned 
poor  brothers  to  their  sisters,  but  some  one  who 
will  keep  an  eye  on  you  and  who  is  n't  going  to 
fall  in  love  with  you." 

"I  did  n't  think  you  were  tailing  in  love  with 
me;  nor  did  I  wish  you  to." 

"  Certainly  not.  Besides,  I  -  Here  Peter 
Byrne  had  another  inspiration,  not  so  good  as 
the  first  —  "Besides,  there  is  somebody  at  home, 

70 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

you    understand?     That    makes    it    all    right, 
doesn't  it?" 

"A  girl  at  home?" 

"A  girl,"  said  Peter,  lying  manfully. 

"How  very  nice!"  said  Harmony,  and  put 
out  her  hand.  Peter,  feeling  all  sorts  of  a  cheat, 
took  it,  and  got  his  reward  in  a  complete 
restoral  of  their  former  comradely  relations. 
From  abstractions  of  church  towers  and  street 
paving  they  went,  with  the  directness  of  the 
young,  to  themselves.  Thereafter,  during  that 
memorable  walk,  they  talked  blissful  person- 
alities, Harmony's  future,  Peter's  career,  money 
—  or  its  lack  —  their  ambitions,  their  hopes, 
even  —  and  here  was  intimacy,  indeed!  —  their 
disappointments,  their  failures  of  courage,  their 
occasional  loss  of  faith  in  themselves. 

The  first  real  snow  of  the  year  was  falling 
as  they  turned  back  toward  the  Pension 
Schwarz,  a  damp  snow  that  stuck  fast  and 
melted  with  a  chilly  cold  that  had  in  it  nothing 
but  depression.  The  upper  spires  of  the  Votiv- 
kirche  were  hidden  in  a  gray  mist;  the  trees  in 
the  park  took  on,  against  the  gloom  of  the  city 
hall,  a  snowy  luminosity.  Save  for  an  occasional 
pedestrian,  making  his  way  home  under  an 
umbrella,  the  streets  were  deserted.  Byrne 
and  Harmony  had  no  umbrella,  but  the  girj 
rejected  his  offer  of  a  taxicab. 

71 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"We  should  be  home  too  quickly,"  she  ob- 
served naively.  "And  we  have  so  much  to 
say  about  me.  Now  I  thought  that  perhaps 
by  giving  English  lessons  in  the  afternoon  and 
working  all  morning  at  my  music  — " 

And  so  on  and  on,  square  after  square5 
with  Peter  listening  gravely,  his  head  bent. 
And  square  after  square  it  was  borne  in 
on  him  what  a  precarious  future  stretched  be- 
fore this  girl  beside  him,  how  very  slender 
her  resources,  how  more  than  dubious  the  out- 
come. 

Poverty,  which  had  only  stimulated  Peter 
Byrne  in  the  past,  ate  deep  into  his  soul  that 
night. 

Epochmaking  as  the  walk  had  been,  seeing 
that  it  had  reestablished  a  friendship  and  made 
a  working  basis  for  future  comradely  relations, 
they  were  back  at  the  corner  of  the  Alserstrasse 
before  ten.  As  they  turned  in  at  the  little  street, 
a  man,  lurching  somewhat,  almost  collided  with 
Harmony.  He  was  a  short,  heavy-set  person 
with  a  carefully  curled  mustache,  and  he  was 
singing,  not  loudly,  but  with  all  his  maudlin 
heart  in  his  voice,  the  barcarolle  from  tb«2 
"Tales"  of  Hoffmann.  He  saw  Harmony,  anJ 
still  singing  planted  himself  in  her  path.  When 
Byrne  would  have  pushed  him  aside  Harmony 
caught  his  arm. 

72 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"It  is  only  the  Portier  from  the  lodge,"  she 
said. 

The  Portier,  having  come  to  rest  on  a  throaty 
and  rather  wavering  note,  stood  before  Har- 
mony, bowing. 

"The  Fraulein  has  gone  and  I  am  very  sad," 
he  said  thickly.  "There  is  no  more  music,  and 
Rosa  has  run  away  with  a  soldier  from  Salz- 
burg who  has  only  one  lung." 

"But  think!"  Harmony  said  h?  German. 
"No  more  practicing  in  the  early  dawn,  no 
young  ladies  bringing  mud  into  your  new- 
scrubbed  hall!  It  is  better,  is  it  not?  All  day 
you  may  rest  and  smoke!" 

Byrne  led  Harmony  past  the  drunken  Por- 
tier, who  turned  with  caution  and  bowed  after 
them. 

"Gute  Nacht,"  he  called.  "Kuss  die  Hand, 
Fraulein.  Four  rooms  and  the  salon  and  a  bath 
of  the  finest." 

As  they  went  up  the  Hirschengasse  they 
could  hear  him  pursuing  his  unsteady  way 
down  the  street  and  singing  lustily.  At  the 
door  of  the  Pension  Schwarz  Harmony  paused. 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  ask  one  question?" 

"You  honor  me,  madam." 

"Then  —  what  is  the  name  of  the  girl  back 
home?" 

Peter   Byrne   was   suddenly   conscious   of  a 

73 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Complete  void  as  to  feminine  names.  He  offered, 
in  a  sort  of  panic,  the  first  one  he  recalled :  — 

"Emma." 

"Emma!  What  a  nice,  old-fashioned  name!'* 
But  there  was  a  touch  of  disappointment  in 
her  voice. 

Harmony  had  a  lesson  the  next  day.  She  was 
a  favorite  pupil  with  the  master.  Out  of  so 
much  musical  chaff  he  winnowed  only  now  and 
then  a  grain  of  real  ability.  And  Harmony 
had  that.  Scatchy  and  the  Big  Soprano  had 
been  right  —  she  had  the  real  thing. 

The  short  half -hour  lesson  had  a  way  with 
Harmony  of  lengthening  itself  to  an  hour  or 
more,  much  to  the  disgust  of  the  lady  secretary 
in  the  anteroom.  On  that  Monday  Harmony 
had  pleased  the  old  man  to  one  of  his  rare 
enthusiasms. 

"Six  months,"  he  said,  "and  you  wTill  go  back 
to  your  America  and  show  them  how  over  here 
we  teach  violin.  I  will  a  letter  —  letters  —  give 
you,  and  you  shall  put  on  the  programme,  of 
your  concerts  that  you  are  my  pupil,  is  it  not 
so?" 

Harmony  was  drawing  on  her  worn  gloves; 
her  hands  trembled  a  little  with  the  praise  and 
excitement. 

"If  I  can  stay  so  long,"  she  answered  un- 
steadily. 

74 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

'*  You  must  stay.  Have  I  so  long  labored,  and 
now  before  it  is  finished  you  talk  of  going! 
Gott  im  Himmel! " 

"It  is  a  matter  of  money.  My  father  is  dead. 
And  unless  I  find  something  to  do  I  shall  have 
to  go  back." 

The  master  had  heard  many  such  statements. 
They  never  ceased  to  rouse  his  ire  against  a 
world  that  had  money  for  everything  but 
music.  He  spent  five  minutes  in  indignant 
protest,  then :  - 

"But  you  are  clever  and  young,  child.  You 
will  find  a  way  to  stay.  Perhaps  I  can  now  and 
then  find  a  concert  for  you."  It  was  a  lure  he 
had  thrown  out  before,  a  hook  without  a  bait. 
It  needed  no  bait,  being  always  eagerly  swal- 
lowed. "And  no  more  talk  of  going  away. 
I  refuse  to  allow.  You  shall  not  go." 

Harmony  paid  the  lady  secretary  on  her  way 
out.  The  master  was  interested.  He  liked 
Harmony  and  he  believed  in  her.  But  fifty 
Kronen  is  fifty  Kronen,  and  South  American 
beef  is  high  of  price.  He  followed  Harmony  intc 
the  outer  room  and  bowed  her  out  of  his  studio. 

"The  Fraulein  has  paid?"  he  demanded, 
turning  sharply  to  the  lady  secretary. 

"Always." 

"After  the  lesson?" 

"  Ja,  Herr  Professor." 
75 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"It  is  better,"  said  the  master,  "that  she 
pay  hereafter  before  the  lesson." 

"Ja,  Herr  Professor." 

Whereupon  the  lady  secretary  put  a  red-ink 
cross  before  Harmony's  name.  There  were 
many  such  crosses  on  the  ledger. 


CHAPTER  VII 

FOR  three  days  Byrne  hardly  saw  Harmony. 
He  was  off  early  in  the  morning,  hurried 
back  to  the  midday  meal  and  was  gone  again 
the  moment  it  was  over.  He  had  lectures  in 
the  evenings,  too,  and  although  he  lingered  for 
an  hour  or  so  after  supper  it  was  to  find  Har- 
mony taken  possession  of  by  the  little  Bul- 
garian, seized  with  a  sudden  thirst  for  things 
American. 

On  the  evening  of  the  second  day  he  had 
left  Harmony,  enmeshed  and  helpless  in  a 
tangle  of  language,  trying  to  explain  to  the 
little  Bulgarian  the  reason  American  women 
wished  to  vote.  Byrne  flung  down  the  stairs 
and  out  into  the  street,  almost  colliding  with 
Stewart. 

They  walked  on  together,  Stewart  with  the 
comfortably  rolling  gait  of  the  man  who  has 
just  dined  well,  Byrne  with  his  heavy,  rather 
solid  tread.  The  two  men  were  not  congenial, 
and  the  frequent  intervals  without  speech  be- 
tween them  were  rather  for  lack  of  understand- 
ing than  for  that  completeness  of  it  which  often 
fathers  long  silences. 

77 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Byrne  was  the  first  to  speak  after  their 
greeting. 

"Marie  all  right?" 

"Fine.  Said  if  I  saw  you  to  ask  you  to  supper 
some  night  this  week." 

"Thanks.   Does  it  matter  which  night?" 

"Any  but  Thursday.  We're  hearing  'La 
Boheme.' " 

"Say  Friday,  then." 

Byrne's  tone  lacked  enthusiasm,  but  Stew- 
art in  his  after-dinner  mood  failed  to  notice 
it. 

"Have  you  thought  any  more  about  our 
conversation  of  the  other  night?" 

"What  was  that?" 

Stewart  poked  him  playfully  in  the  ribs. 

"Wake  up,  Byrne!"  he  said.  "You  remember 
well  enough.  Neither  the  Days  nor  any  one 
else  is  going  to  have  the  benefit  of  your  assist- 
ance if  you  go  on  living  the  way  you  have  been. 
I  was  at  Schwarz's.  It  is  the  double  drain  there 
that  tells  on  one  —  eating  little  and  being  eaten 
much.  Those  old  walls  are  full  of  vermin.  Why 
don't  you  take  our  apartment?" 

"Yours?" 

"Yes,  for  a  couple  of  months.  I'm  through 
with  Schleich  and  Breidau  can't  take  me  for 
two  months.  It's  Marie's  off  season  and  we're 
going  to  Semmering  for  the  winter  sports- 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

We  're  ahead  enough  to  take  a  holiday.  And  if 
you  want  the  flat  for  the  same  amount  you  are 
spending  now,  or  less,  you  can  have  it,  and 
—  a  home,  old  man." 

Byrne  was  irritated,  the  more  so  that  he  real- 
ized that  the  offer  tempted  him.  To  his  resent- 
ment was  added  a  contempt  of  himself. 

"Thanks,"  he  said.   "I  think  not." 

"Oh,  all  right."  Stewart  was  rather  offended. 
"I  can't  do  more  than  give  you  a  chance." 

They  separated  shortly  after  and  Byrne 
went  on  alone.  The  snow  of  Sunday  had  turned 
to  a  fine  rain  which  had  lasted  all  of  Monday 
and  Tuesday.  The  sidewalks  were  slimy;  wagons 
slid  in  the  ooze  of  the  streets;  and  the  smoke 
from  the  little  stoves  in  the  street-cars  followed 
them  in  depressing  horizontal  clouds.  Cabmen 
sat  and  smoked  in  the  interior  of  musty  cabs. 
The  women  hod-carriers  on  a  new  building 
steamed  like  horses  as  they  worked. 

Byrne  walked  along,  his  head  thrust  down 
into  his  up- turned  collar;  moisture  gathered  on 
his  face  like  dew,  condensed  rather  than  pre- 
cipitated. And  as  he  walked  there  came  before 
him  a  vision  of  the  little  flat  on  the  Kochgasse, 
with  the  lamp  on  the  table,  and  the  general  air 
of  warmth  and  cheer,  and  a  figure  presiding 
over  the  brick  stove  in  the  kitchen.  Byrne 
shook  himself  like  a  great  dog  and  turned  in  at 

79 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

the  gate  of  the  hospital.  He  was  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  himself. 

That  week  was  full  of  disappointments  for 
Harmony.  Wherever  she  turned  she  faced 
a  wall  of  indifference  or,  what  was  worse,  an 
interest  that  frightened  her.  Like  a  bird  in  a 
cage  she  beat  helplessly  against  barriers  of 
language,  of  strange  customs,  of  stolidity  that 
were  not  far  from  absolute  cruelty. 

She  held  to  her  determination,  however,  at 
iirst  with  hope,  then,  as  the  pension  in  advance 
and  the  lessons  at  fifty  Kronen  —  also  in  ad- 
vance, —  went  on,  recklessly.  She  played  mar- 
velously  those  days,  crying  out  through  her 
violin  the  despair  she  had  sealed  her  lips  against. 
On  Thursday,  playing  for  the  master,  she  turned 
fo  find  him  flourishing  his  handkerchief,  and 
went  home  in  a  sort  of  daze,  incredulous  that 
she  could  have  moved  him  to  tears. 

The  little  Bulgarian  was  frankly  her  slave 
now.  He  had  given  up  the  coffee-houses  that  he 
might  spend  that  hour  near  her,  on  the  chance 
of  seeing  her  or,  failing  that,  of  hearing  her 
play.  At  night  in  the  Cafe  Hungaria  he  sat  for 
hours  at  a  time,  his  elbows  on  the  table,  a  bot- 
tle of  native  wine  before  him,  and  dreamed  of 
her.  He  was  very  fat,  the  little  Georgiev,  very 
swarthy,  very  pathetic.  The  Balkan  kettle  was 
simmering  in  those  days,  and  he  had  been  set 

80 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

to  watch  the  fire.  But  instead  he  had  kindled  a 
flame  of  his  own,  and  was  feeding  it  with  stray 
words,  odd  glances,  a  bit  of  music,  the  curve 
of  a  woman's  hair  behind  her  ears.  For  reports 
he  wrote  verses  in  modern  Greek,  and  through 
one  of  those  inadvertences  which  make  tragedy, 
the  Minister  of  War  down  in  troubled  Bulgaria 
once  received  between  the  pages  of  a  report  in 
cipher  on  the  fortifications  of  the  Danube  a 
verse  in  fervid  hexameter  that  made  even  that 
grim  official  smile. 

Harmony  was  quite  unconscious.  She  went 
on  her  way  methodically:  so  many  hours  of 
work,  so  many  lessons  at  fifty  Kronen,  so  many 
afternoons  searching  for  something  to  do, 
making  rounds  of  shops  where  her  English  might 
be  valuable. 

And  after  a  few  weeks  Peter  Byrne  found  time 
to  help.  After  one  experience,  when  Harmony 
left  a  shop  with  flaming  face  and  tears  in  her 
eyes,  he  had  thought  it  best  to  go  with  her. 
The  first  interview,  under  Peter's  grim  eyes9 
was  a  failure.  The  shopkeeper  was  obviously 
suspicious  of  Peter.  After  that,  whenever  he 
could  escape  from  clinics,  Peter  went  along, 
but  stayed  outside,  smoking  his  eternal  cigarette,, 
and  keeping  a  watchful  eye  on  things  inside  the 

shop. 

Only  once  was  he  needed.   At  that  time,  sus- 
81 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

pecting  that  all  was  not  well,  from  the  girl's  eyes 
and  the  leer  on  the  shopkeeper's  face,  he  had 
opened  the  door  in  time  to  hear  enough.  He 
had  lifted  the  proprietor  bodily  and  flung  him 
with  a  crash  into  a  glass  showcase  of  orna- 
ments for  the  hair.  Then,  entirely  cheerful 
and  happy,  and  unmolested  by  the  .frightened 
clerks,  he  led  Harmony  outside  and  in  a  sort  of 
atavistic  triumph  bought  her  a  bunch  of  valley 
lilies. 

Nevertheless,  in  his  sane  moments,  Peter 
knew  that  things  were  very  bad,  indeed.  He 
was  still  not  in  love  with  the  girl.  He  analyzed 
his  own  feeling  very  carefully,  and  that  was  his 
conclusion.  Nevertheless  he  did  a  quixotic 
thing  —  which  was  Peter,  of  course,  all  over. 

He  took  supper  with  Stewart  and  Marie  on 
Friday,  and  the  idea  came  to  him  there.  Hardly 
came  to  him,  being  Marie's  originally.  The  little 
flat  was  cozy  and  bright.  Marie,  having  straight- 
ened her  kitchen,  brought  in  a  waist  she  was 
making  and  sat  sewing  while  the  two  men  talked. 
Their  conversation  was  technical,  a  new  extir- 
pation of  the  thyroid  gland,  a  recent  nephrec- 
tomy. 

In  her  curious  way  Marie  liked  Peter  and  re- 
spected him.  She  struggled  with  the  technical- 
ities of  their  talk  as  she  sewed,  finding  here  and 
there  a  comprehensive  bit.  At  those  times  she 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

sat,  needle  poised,  intelligent  eyes  on  the  speakers, 
until  she  lost  herself  again  in  the  mazes  of  their 
English. 

At  ten  o'clock  she  rose  and  put  away  her 
sewing.  Peter  saw  her  get  the  stone  pitcher  and 
knew  she  was  on  her  way  for  the  evening  beer. 
He  took  advantage  of  her  absence  to  broach  the 
matter  of  Harmony. 

"She's  up  against  it,  as  a  matter  of  fact,"  he 
finished.  "It  ought  to  be  easy  enough  for  her 
to  find  something,  but  it  is  n't." 

"I  hardly  saw  her  that  day  in  the  coffee-house; 
but  she's  rather  handsome,  is  n't  she?" 

"That's  one  of  the  difficulties.   Yes." 

Stewart  smoked  and  reflected.  "No  friends 
here  at  all?" 

"None.  There  were  three  girls  at  first.  Two 
have  gone  home." 

"Could  she  teach  violin?" 

"I  should  think  so." 

"Are  n't  there  any  kids  in  the  American  col- 
ony who  want  lessons?  There's  usually  some 
sort  of  infant  prodigy  ready  to  play  at  any  en- 
tertainments of  the  Doctors'  Club." 

"They  don't  want  an  American  teacher,  I 
fancy;  but  I  suppose  I  could  put  a  card  up  in 
the  club  rooms.  Damn  it  all!"  cried  Peter  with 
a  burst  of  honest  resentment,  "why  do  I  have  to 
be  poor?" 

83 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"If  you  were  rolling  in  gold  you  could  hardly 
offer  her  money,  could  you?" 

Peter  had  not  thought  of  that  before.  It 
was  the  only  comfort  he  found  in  his  poverty. 
Marie  had  brought  in  the  beer  and  was  carefully 
filling  the  mugs.  "Why  do  you  not  marry  her?" 
she  asked  unexpectedly.  "Then  you  could  take 
this  flat.  We  are  going  to  Semmering  for  the 
winter  sports.  I  would  show  her  about  the 
stove." 

"Marry  her,  of  course!"  said  Peter  gravely. 
"Just  pick  her  up  and  carry  her  to  church! 
The  trifling  fact  that  she  does  not  wish  to  marry 
me  need  have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"Ah,  but  does  she  not  wish  it?"  demanded 
Marie.  "Are  you  so  certain,  stupid  big  one? 
Do  not  women  always  love  you?" 

Ridiculous  as  the  thought  was,  Peter  pondered 
it  as  he  went  back  to  the  Pension  Schwarz. 
About  himself  he  was  absurdly  modest,  almost 
humble.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that 
women  might  care  for  him  for  himself.  In  his 
struggling  life  there  had  been  little  time  for 
women.  But  about  himself  as  the  solution  of  a 
problem  —  that  was  different. 

He  argued  the  thing  over.  In  the  unlikely 
contingency  of  the  girl's  being  willing,  was 
Stewart  right  —  could  two  people  live  as  cheaply 
as  one?  Marie  was  an  Austrian  and  knew  how 

84 


The  Street  of  Seven 

to  manage  —  that  was  different.  And  another 
thing  troubled  him.  He  dreaded  to  disturb  the 
delicate  adjustment  of  their  relationship;  the 
terra  incognita  of  a  young  girl's  mind  daunted 
him.  There  was  another  consideration  which  he 
put  resolutely  in  the  back  of  his  mind  —  his 
career.  He  had  seen  many  a  promising  one 
killed  by  early  marriage,  men  driven  to  the 
hack  work  of  the  profession  by  the  scourge  of 
financial  necessity.  But  that  was  a  matter 
of  the  future;  the  necessity  was  immediate. 

The  night  was  very  cold.  Gusts  of  wind 
from  the  snow-covered  Schneeberg  drove  along 
the  streets,  making  each  corner  a  fortress  de- 
fended by  the  elements,  a  battlement  to  be 
seized,  lost,  seized  again.  Peter  Byrne  battled 
valiantly  but  mechanically.  And  as  he  fought 
he  made  his  decision. 

He  acted  with  characteristic  promptness. 
Possibly,  too,  he  was  afraid  of  the  strength  of 
his  own  resolution.  By  morning  sanity  might 
prevail,  and  in  cold  daylight  he  would  see  the 
absurdity  of  his  position.  He  almost  ran  up 
the  winding  staircase.  At  the  top  his  cold  fingers 
fumbled  the  key  and  he  swore  under  his  breath. 
He  slammed  the  door  behind  him.  Peter 
always  slammed  doors,  and  had  an  apologetic 
way  of  opening  the  door  again  and  closing  it 
gently,  as  if  to  show  that  he  could. 

85 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony's  room  was  dark,  but  he  had  sur- 
prised her  once  into  a  confession  that  when  she 
was  very  downhearted  she  liked  to  sit  in  the 
dark  and  be  very  blue  indeed.  So  he  stopped 
and  knocked.  There  was  no  reply,  but  from 
Dr.  Gates's  room  across  there  came  a  hum  of 
conversation.  He  knew  at  once  that  Harmony 
was  there. 

Peter  hardly  hesitated.  He  took  off  his  soft  hat 
and  ran  a  hand  over  his  hair,  and  he  straight- 
ened his  tie.  These  preliminaries  to  a  proposal 
of  marriage  being  disposed  of,  he  rapped  at  the 
door. 

Anna  Gates  opened  it.  She  wore  a  hideous 
red-flannel  wrapper,  and  in  deference  to  Har- 
mony a  thimble.  Her  flat  breast  was  stuck 
with  pins,  and  pinkish  threads  revealed  the 
fact  that  the  bathrobe  was  still  under  way. 

"Peter! "  she  cried.   " Come  in  and  get  warm." 

Harmony,  in  the  blue  kimono,  gave  a  little 
gasp,  and  flung  round  her  shoulders  the  mass 
of  pink  on  which  she  had  been  working. 

" Please  go  out ! "  she  said.  "I  am  not  dressed." 

''You  are  covered,"  returned  Anna  Gates. 
"That's  all  that  any  sort  of  clothing  can  do. 
Don't  mind  her,  Peter,  and  sit  on  the  bed. 
Look  out  for  pins!" 

Peter,  however,  did  not  sit  down.  He  stood 
just  inside  the  closed  door  and  stared  at  Har- 

86 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

mony  —  Harmony  in  the  red  light  from  the 
little  open  door  of  the  stove;  Harmony  in  blue 
and  pink  and  a  bit  of  white  petticoat;  Harmony 
with  her  hair  over  her  shoulders  and  tied  out 
of  her  eyes  with  an  encircling  band  of  rosy 
flannel. 

"Do  sit!"  cried  Anna  Gates.  "You  fill  the 
room  so.  Bless  you,  Peter,  what  a  collar!" 

No  man  likes  to  know  his  collar  is  soiled, 
especially  on  the  eve  of  proposing  marriage  to  a 
pink  and  blue  and  white  vision.  Peter,  seated 
now  on  the  bed,  writhed. 

"I  rapped  at  Miss  Wells's  door,"  he  said. 
:'You  were  not  there." 

This  last,  of  course,  to  Harmony. 

Anna  Gates  sniffed. 

"Naturally!" 

"I  had  something  to  say  to  you.  I--I 
dare  say  it  is  hardly  pension  etiquette  for  you 
to  go  over  to  your  room  and  let  me  say  it  there?'* 

Harmony  smiled  above  the  flannel. 

"Could  you  call  it  through  the  door?" 

"Hardly." 

"Fiddlesticks!"  said  Dr.  Gates,  rising.  "I'll 
go  over,  of  course,  but  not  for  long.  There's  no 
fire." 

With  her  hand  on  the  knob,  however,  Har 
mony  interfered. 

"Please!"  she  implored.    "I  am  not  dressed 
87 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  I'd  rather  not."  She  turned  to  Peter. 
"You  can  say  it  before  her,  can't  you?  She  —  I 
have  told  her  all  about  things." 

Peter  hesitated.  He  felt  ridiculous  for  the 
second  time  that  night.  Then :  — 

"It  was  merely  an  idea  I  had.  I  saw  a  little 
apartment  furnished  —  you  could  learn  to  use 
the  stove,  unless,  of  course,  you  don't  like  house- 
keeping —  and  food  is  really  awfully  cheap. 
Why,  at  these  delicatessen  places  and  bake- 
shops  —  " 

Here  he  paused  for  breath  and  found  Dr. 
Gates's  quizzical  glance  fixed  on  him,  and 
Harmony's  startled  eyes. 

"What  I  am  trying  to  say,"  he  exploded, 
"is  that  I  believe  if  you  would  marry  me  it 
would  solve  some  of  your  troubles  anyhow." 
He  was  talking  for  time  now,  against  Harmony's 
incredulous  face.  "You'd  be  taking  on  others, 
of  course.  I  'm  not  much  and  I  'm  as  poor  — 
well,  you  know.  It  —  it  was  the  apartment 
that  gave  me  the  idea — " 

"And  the  stove!"  said  Harmony;  and  sud- 
denly burst  into  joyous  laughter.  After  a  rather 
shocked  instant  Dr.  Gates  joined  her.  It  was 
real  mirth  with  Harmony,  the  first  laugh  of 
days,  that  curious  laughter  of  women  that  is 
not  far  from  tears. 

Peter  sat  on  the  bed  uncomfortably.  He 

88 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars, 

grinned  sheepishly  and  made  a  last  feeble 
attempt  to  stick  to  his  guns. 

"I  mean  it.  You  know  I'm  not  in  love  with 
you  or  you  with  me,  of  course.  But  we  are  such 
a  pair  of  waifs,  and  I  thought  we  might  get 
along.  Lord  knows  I  need  some  one  to  look  after 
me!" 

"And  Emma?" 

" There  is  no  Emma.    I  made  }/.£r  up." 

Harmony  sobered  at  that. 

"It  is  only"  -  she  gasped  a  litt!.e  for  breath  — 
"  it  is  only  your  —  your  transparency,  Peter ." 
It  was  the  first  time  she  had  called  bim  Peter. 
'You  know  how  things  are  with  m?  and  you 
want  to  help  me,  and  out  of  your  generosity 
you  are  willing  to  take  on  another  burden. 
Oh,  Peter!" 

And  here,  Harmony  being  an  emotional  young 
person,  the  tears  beat  the  laughter  to  the  sur- 
face and  had  to  be  wiped  away  under  the  cover 
of  mirth. 

Anna  Gates,  having  recovered  herself,  sat 
back  and  surveyed  them  both  sternly  through 
her  glasses. 

"Once  for  all,"  she  said  brusquely,  "let  such 
foolishness  end.  Peter,  I  am  ashamed  of  you. 
Marriage  is  not  for  you  —  not  yet,  not  for  a 
dozen  years.  Any  man  can  saddle  himself  with 
a  wife;  not  every  man  can  be  what  you  may  be  if 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

you  keep  your  senses  and  stay  single.  And  the 
same  is  true  for  you,  girl.  To  tide  over  a  bad 
six  months  you  would  sacrifice  the  very  thing 
you  are  both  struggling  for?" 

"I'm  sure  we  don't  intend  to  do  it,"  replied 
Harmony  meekly. 

"Not  now.  Some  day  you  may  be  tempted. 
When  that  time  comes,  remember  what  I  say. 
Matrimonially  speaking,  each  of  you  is  fatal 
to  the  other.  Now  go  away  and  let  me  alone. 
I'm  not  accustomed  to  proposals  of  marriage." 

It  was  in  some  confusion  of  mind  that 
Peter  Byrne  took  himself  off  to  the  bed- 
room with  the  cold  tiled  stove  and  the  bed 
that  was  as  comfortable  as  a  washtub.  Un- 
deniably he  was  relieved.  Also  Harmony's 
problem  was  yet  unsolved.  Also  she  had 
called  him  Peter. 

Also  he  had  said  he  was  not  in  love  with  her. 
Was  he  so  sure  of  that? 

At  midnight,  just  as  Peter,  rolled  in  the  bed- 
clothing,  had  managed  to  warm  the  cold  con- 
cavity of  his  bed  and  had  dozed  off,  Anna 
Gates  knocked  at  his  door. 

"Yes?"  said  Peter,  still  comfortably  asleep* 

"It  is  Dr.  Gates." 

"Sorry,  Doctor  —  have  to  'xcuse  me,"  mum- 
bled Peter  from  the  blanket. 

"Peter!" 

90 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Peter  roused  to  a  chilled  and  indignant  con- 
sciousness and  sat  up  in  bed. 

"Well?" 

"Open  the  door  just  a  crack." 

Resignedly  Peter  crawled  out  of  bed,  carefully 
turning  the  coverings  up  to  retain  as  much  heat 
as  possible.  An  icy  blast  from  the  open  window 
blew  round  him,  setting  everything  movable  in 
the  little  room  to  quivering.  He  fumbled  in  the 
dark  for  his  slippers,  failed  to  find  them,  and 
yawning  noisily  went  to  the  door. 

Anna  Gates,  with  a  candle,  was  outside. 
Her  short,  graying  hair  was  out  of  its  hard 
knot,  and  hung  in  an  equally  uncompromising 
six-inch  plait  down  her  back.  She  had  no  glasses, 
and  over  the  candle-frame  she  peered  short- 
sightedly at  Peter. 

"It's  about  Jimmy,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
know  what's  got  into  me,  but  I've  forgotten 
for  three  days.  It's  a  good  bit  more  than  time 
for  a  letter." 

"Great  Scott!" 

"Both  yesterday  and  to-day  he  asked  for 
it  and  to-day  he  fretted  a  little.  The  nurse  found 
him  crying." 

"The  poor  little  devil!"  said  Peter  contritely. 
"Overdue,  is  it?  I'll  fix  it  to-night." 

"Leave  it  under  the  door  where  I  can  get 
it  in  the  morning.  I  'm  off  at  seven." 

91 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"The  envelope?" 

"Here  it  is.  And  take  my  candle.  I  'm  going  to 
bed." 

That  was  at  midnight  or  shortly  after.  Half 
after  one  struck  from  the  twin  clocks  of  the 
Votivkirche  and  echoed  from  the  Stephans- 
platz  across  the  city.  It  found  Peter  with  the 
window  closed,  sitting  up  in  bed,  a  candle 
balanced  on  one  knee,  a  writing-tablet  on  th< 
other. 

He  was  writing  a  spirited  narrative  of  a  cham- 
ois hunt  in  which  he  had  taken  part  that  day, 
including  a  detailed  description  of  the  quarry, 
which  weighed,  according  to  Peter,  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds,  Peter  being  strong  on  imagi- 
nation and  short  on  facts  as  regards  the  Alpine 
chamois.  Then,  trying  to  read  the  letter  from  a 
small  boy's  point  of  view  and  deciding  that  it 
lacked  'snap,  he  added  by  way  of  postscript  a 
harrowing  incident  of  avalanche,  rope,  guide, 
and  ice  axe.  He  ended  in  a  sort  of  glow  of  author- 
ship, and  after  some  thought  took  fifty  pounds 
off  the  chamois. 

The  letter  finished,  he  put  it  in  a  much-used 
envelope  addressed  to  Jimmy  Conroy  —  an 
envelope  that  stamped  the  whole  episode  as 
authentic,  bearing  as  it  did  an  undecipherable 
date  and  the  postmark  of  a  tiny  village  in  the 
Austrian  Tyrol. 

92 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

It  was  almost  two  when  Peter  put  out  the 
candle  and  settled  himself  to  sleep. 

It  was  just  two  o'clock  when  the  night  nurse, 
making  rounds  in  her  ward  in  the  general 
hospital,  found  a  small  boy  very  much  awake 
on  his  pillow,  and  taking  off  her  felt  slipper  shook 
it  at  him  in  pretended  fury. 

"Now,  thou  bad  one!"  she  said.  "Awake, 
when  the  Herr  Doktor  orders  sleep!  Shall  I 
use  the  slipper?" 

The  boy  replied  in  German  with  a  strong 
English  accent. 

"I  cannot  sleep.  Yesterday  the  Fraulein 
Elisabet  said  that  in  the  mountains  there  are 
accidents,  and  that  sometimes  - 

"The  Fraulein  Elisabet  is  a  great  fool.  To- 
morrow comes  thy  letter  of  a  certainty.  The 
post  has  been  delayed  with  great  snows.  Thy 
father  has  perhaps  captured  a  great  boar,  or 
a  —  a  chamois,  and  he  writes  of  it." 

"Do  chamois  have  horns?" 

"Ja.    Great  horns  —  so." 

"He  will  send  them  to  me!  And  there  are  no 
accidents?" 

"None.    Now  sleep,  or —  the  slipper." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SO  far  Harmony's  small  world  in  the  old 
city  had  consisted  of  Scatchy  and  the  Big 
Soprano,  Peter,  and  Anna  Gates,  with  far  off 
in  the  firmament  the  master.  Scatchy  and  the 
Big  Soprano  had  gone,  weeping  anxious  post- 
cards from  every  way  station  it  is  true,  but  never- 
theless gone.  Peter  and  Anna  Gates  remained  > 
and  the  master  as  long  as  her  funds  held  out. 
To  them  now  she  was  about  to  add  Jimmy. 

The  bathrobe  was  finished.  Out  of  th^  little 
doctor's  chaos  of  pink  flannel  Harmony  had 
brought  order.  The  result,  masculine  and  com- 
plete even  to  its  tassels  and  cord  of  pink  yarn,, 
was  ready  to  be  presented.  It  was  with  mingled 
emotions  that  Anna  Gates  wrapped  it  up  and 
gave  it  to  Harmony  the  next  morning. 

"He  has  n't  been  so  well  the  last  day  or  two,'' 
she  said.  "He  doesn't  sleep  much-- that 's: 
the  worst  of  those  heart  conditions.  Sometimes., 
while  I  've  been  working  on  this  thing,  I  've  won- 
dered—  Well,  we're  making  a  fight  anyhow. 
And  better  take  the  letter,  too,  Harry.  I  might 
forget  and  make  lecture  notes  on  it,  and  if  J 
spoil  that  envelope — " 

94 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony  had  arranged  to  carry  the  bathrobe 
to  the  hospital,  meeting  the  doctor  there  after 
her  early  clinic.  She  knew  Jimmy's  little  story 
quite  well.  Anna  Gates  had  told  it  to  her  in  detail. 

"Just  one  of  the  tragedies  of  the  world,  my 
dear,"  she  had  finished.  "You  think  you  have  a 
tragedy,  but  you  have  youth  and  hope;  I  think 
I  have  my  own  little  tragedy,  because  I  have  to 
go  through  the  rest  of  life  alone,  when  taken 
in  time  I  'd  have  been  a  good  wife  and  mother. 
Still  I  have  my  work.  But  this  little  chap, 
brought  over  here  by  a  father  who  hoped  to  see 
him  cured,  and  spent  all  he  had  to  bring  him 
here,  and  then  —  died.  It  gets  me  by  the  throat.'* 

"And  the  boy  does  not  know?"  Harmony 
had  asked,  her  eyes  wide. 

"  No,  thanks  to  Peter.  He  thinks  his  father  is 
still  in  the  mountains.  When  we  heard  about  it 
Peter  went  up  and  saw  that  he  was  buried.  It 
took  about  all  the  money  there  was.  He  wrote 
home  about  it,  too,  to  the  place  they  came  from. 
There  has  never  been  any  reply.  Then  ever  since 
Peter  has  written  these  letters.  Jimmy  lives 
for  them." 

Peter!  It  was  always  Peter.  Peter  did  this. 
Peter  said  that.  Peter  thought  thus.  A  very 
large  part  of  Harmony's  life  was  Peter  in  those 
days. 

She  was  thinking  of  him  as  she  waited  at  the 

95 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

gate  of  the  hospital  for  Anna  Gates,  thinking  of 
his  shabby  gray  suit  and  unkempt  hair,  of  his 
letter  that  she  carried  to  Jimmy  Conroy,  of  his 
quixotic. proposal  of  the  night  before.  Of  the 
proposal,  most  of  all  —  it  was  so  eminently 
characteristic  of  Peter,  from  the  conception 
of  the  plan  to  its  execution.  Harmony's  thought 
of  Peter  was  very  tender  that  morning  as  she 
stood  in  the  arched  gateway  out  of  reach  of  the 
wind  from  the  Schneeberg.  The  tenderness  and 
the  bright  color  brought  by  the  wind  made  her 
very  beautiful.  Little  Marie,  waiting  across  the 
Alserstrasse  for  a  bus,  and  stamping  from  one 
foot  to  the  other  to  keep  warm,  recognized  and 
admired  her.  After  all,  the  American  women 
were  chic,  she  decided,  although  some  of  the 
doctors  had  wives  of  a  dowdiness  — Himmel ! 
And  she  could  copy  the  Fraulein's  hat  for  two 
Kronen  and  a  bit  of  ribbon  she  possessed. 

The  presentation  of  the  bathrobe  was  a  suc- 
cess. Six  nurses  and  a  Dozent  with  a  red  beard 
stood  about  and  watched  Jimmy  put  into  it, 
and  the  Dozent,  who  had  been  engaged  for  five 
years  and  could  not  marry  because  the  hospita: 
board  forbade  it,  made  a  speech  for  Jimmy 
in  awe-inspiring  German,  ending  up  with  a  poem 
that  was  intended  to  be  funny,  but  that  made 
the  nurses  cry.  From  which  it  will  be  seen  that 
Jimmy  was  a  great  favorite. 

96 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

During  the  ceremony,  for  such  it  was,  the 
Germans  loving  a  ceremony,  Jimmy  kept  his 
eyes  on  the  letter  in  Anna  Gates 's  hand  and 
waited.  That  the  letter  had  come  was  enough. 
He  lay  back  in  anticipatory  joy,  and  let  him- 
self be  talked  over,  and  bathrobed,  and  his  hair 
parted  Austrian  fashion  and  turned  up  over  a 
finger,  which  is  very  Austrian  indeed.  He  liked 
Harmony.  The  girl  caught  his  eyes  on  her  more 
than  once.  He  interrupted  the  speech  once  to 
ask  her  just  what  part  of  the  robe  she  had  made, 
and  whether  she  had  made  the  tassel.  When 
she  admitted  the  tassel,  his  admiration  became 
mixed  with  respect. 

It  was  a  bright  day,  for  a  marvel.  Sunlight 
came  through  the  barred  window  behind 
Jimmy's  bed,  and  brought  into  dazzling  radi- 
ance the  pink  bathrobe,  and  Harmony's  eyes, 
and  fat  Nurse  Elisabet's  white  apron.  It  lay 
on  the  bedspread  in  great  squares,  outlined  by 
the  shadows  of  the  window  bars.  Now  and  then 
the  sentry,  pacing  outside,  would  advance  as 
far  as  Jimmy's  window,  and  a  warlike  silhou- 
ette of  military  cap  and  the  upper  end  of  a 
carbine  would  appear  on  the  coverlet.  These 
events,  however,  were  rare,  the  sentry  preferring 
the  shelter  of  the  gateway  and  the  odor  of 
boiling  onions  from  the  lodge  just  inside. 

The  Dozent  retired  to  his  room  for  the  second 

97 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

breakfast;  the  nurses  went  about  the  business  of 
the  ward;  Dr.  Anna  Gates  drew  a  hairpin  from 
her  hair  and  made  a  great  show  of  opening  the 
many  times  opened  envelope. 

"The  letter  at  last!"  she  said.  ''Shall  I  read 
it  or  will  you?" 

"You  read  it.  It  takes  me  so  long.  I'll  read 
it  all  day,  after  you  are  gone.  I  always  do." 

Anna  Gates  read  the  letter.  She  read  aloud 
poor  Peter's  first  halting  lines,  when  he  was 
struggling  against  sleep  and  cold.  They  were 
mainly  an  apology  for  the  delay.  Then  for- 
getting discomfort  in  the  joy  of  creation,  he 
became  more  comfortable.  The  account  of 
the  near-accident  was  wonderfully  graphic;  the 
description  of  the  chamois  was  fervid,  if  not 
accurate.  But  consternation  came  with  the  end. 

The  letter  apparently  finished,  there  was  yet 
another  sheet.  The  doctor  read  on. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,"  said  Peter's  frantic 
postscript,  "find  out  how  much  a  medium- 
sized  chamois — " 

Dr.  Gates  stopped  —  ought  to  weigh," 
was  the  rest  of  it,  "and  fix  it  right  in  the  letter. 
The  kid's  too  smart  to  be  fooled  and  I  never 
saw  a  chamois  outside  of  a  drug  store.  They 
have  horns,  haven't  they?" 

"That's  funny!"  said  Jimmy  Conroy. 

"That  was  one  of  my  papers  slipped  in  by 

98 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

mistake,"  remarked  Dr.  Gates,  with  dignity, 
and  flashing  a  wild  appeal  for  help  to  Har- 
mony. 

"How  did  one  of  your  papers  get  in  when  it 
was  sealed?" 

"I  think,"  observed  Harmony,  leaning  for- 
ward, "that  little  boys  must  not  ask  too  many 
questions,  especially  when  Christmas  is  only 
six  weeks  off." 

"I  know!  He  wants  to  send  me  the  horns  the 
way  he  sent  me  the  boar's  tusks." 

For  Peter,  having  in  one  letter  unwisely  re- 
corded the  slaughter  of  a  boar,  had  been  obliged 
to  ransack  Vienna  for  a  pair  of  tusks.  The  tusks 
had  not  been  so  difficult.  But  horns! 

Jimmy  was  contented  with  his  solution  and 
asked  no  more  questions.  The  morning's  ex- 
citement had  tired  him,  and  he  lay  back.  Dr. 
Gates  went  to  hold  a  whispered  consultation 
with  the  nurse,  and  came  back,  looking  grave. 

The  boy  was  asleep,  holding  the  letter  in  his 
thin  hands. 

The  visit  to  the  hospital  was  a  good  thing 
for  Harmony  —  to  find  some  one  \vorse  off 
than  she  was,  to  satisfy  that  eternal  desire 
of  women  to  do  something,  however  small,  for 
some  one  else.  Her  own  troubles  looked  very 
small  to  her  that  day  as  she  left  the  hospital 
and  stepped  out  into  the  bright  sunshine. 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

She  passed  the  impassive  sentry,  then  turned 
and  went  back  to  him. 

"Do  you  wish  to  do  a  very  kind  thing?" 
she  asked  in  German. 

Now  the  conversation  of  an  Austrian  sentry 
consists  of  yea,  yea,  and  nay,  nay,  and  not  al- 
ways that.  But  Harmony  was  lovely  and  the 
sun  was  moderating  the  wind.  The  sentry 
looked  round;  no  one  was  near. 

"What  do  you  wish?" 

"Inside  that  third  window  is  a  small  boy  and 
he  is  very  ill.  I  do  not  think  —  perhaps  he 
will  never  be  well  again.  Could  you  not,  now 
and  then,  pass  the  window?  It  pleases  him." 

"Pass  the  window!    But  why?" 

"In  America  we  see  few  of  our  soldiers.  He 
likes  to  see  you  and  the  gun." 

"Ah,  the  gun!"  He  smiled  and  nodded  in 
comprehension,  then,  as  an  officer  appeared  in 
the  door  of  a  coffee-house  across  the  street,  he 
stiffened  into  immobility  and  stared  past  Har- 
mony into  space.  But  the  girl  knew  he  would 
do  as  she  had  desired. 

That  day  brought  good  luck  to  Harmony. 
The  wife  of  one  of  the  professors  at  the  hospital 
desired  English  conversation  at  two  Kronen 
an  hour. 

Peter  brought  the  news  home  at  noon,  and 
that  afternoon  Harmony  was  engaged.  It  was 

100 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

little  enough,  but  it  was  something.  It  did 
much  more  than  offer  her  two  Kronen  an  hour; 
it  gave  her  back  her  self-confidence,  although 
the  immediate  result  was  rather  tragic. 

The  Frau  Professor  Bergmeister,  infatuated 
with  English  and  with  Harmony,  engaged  her 
and  took  her  first  two  Kronen  worth  that 
afternoon.  It  was  the  day  for  a  music-lesson. 
Harmony  arrived  five  minutes  late,  panting, 
hat  awry,  and  so  full  of  the  Frau  Professor 
Bergmeister  that  she  could  think  of  nothing  else. 

Obedient  to  orders  she  had  placed  the  envelope 
containing  her  fifty  Kronen  before  the  secre- 
tary as  she  wrent  in.  The  master  was  out  of 
humor.  Should  he,  the  teacher  of  the  great 
Koert,  be  kept  waiting  for  a  chit  of  a  girl  —  only, 
of  course,  he  said  "das  Kindchen"  or  some  other 
German  equivalent  for  chit  —  and  then  have 
her  come  into  the  sacred  presence  breathless, 
and  salute  him  between  gasps  as  the  Frau 
Professor  Bergmeister? 

Being  excited  and  now  confused  by  her  error, 
and  being  also  rather  tremulous  with  three 
flights  of  stairs  at  top  speed,  Harmony  dropped 
her  bow.  In  point  of  heinousness  this  classes 
with  dropping  one's  infant  child  from  an  upper 
window,  or  sitting  on  the  wrong  side  of  a  carriage 
when  with  a  lady. 

The  master,  thus  thrice  outraged,  rose  slowly 
101 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  glared  at  Harmony.  Then  with  a  lordly 
gesture  to  her  to  follow  he  stalked  to  the  outer 
room,  and  picking  up  the  envelope  with  the  fifty 
Kronen  held  it  out  to  her  without  a  word. 

Harmony's  world  came  crashing  about  her 
ears.  She  stared  stupidly  at  the  envelope  in 
her  hand,  at  the  master's  retreating  back. 

Two  girl  students  waiting  their  turn,  en- 
velopes in  hand,  giggled  together.  Harmony 
saw  them  and  flushed  scarlet.  But  the  lady 
secretary  touched  her  arm. 

"It  does  not  matter,  Fraulein.  He  does  so 
sometimes.  Always  he  is  sorry.  You  will  come 
for  your  next  lesson,  not  so?  and  all  will  be  well. 
You  are  his  well-beloved  pupil.  To-night  he 
will  not  eat  for  grief  that  he  has  hurt  you.'* 

The  ring  of  sincerity  in  the  shabby  secre- 
tary's voice  was  unmistakable.  Her  tense  throat 
relaxed.  She  looked  across  at  the  two  students 
who  had  laughed.  They  were  not  laughing 
now.  Something  of  fellowship  and  understand- 
ing passed  between  them  in  the  glance.  After 
all,  it  was  in  the  day's  work  —  would  come  to 
one  of  them  next,  perhaps.  And  they  had  much 
in  common  —  the  struggle,  their  faith,  the 
everlasting  loneliness,  the  little  white  envelopes, 
each  with  its  fifty  Kronen. 

Vaguely  comforted,  but  with  the  light  gone 
out  of  her  day  of  days,  Harmony  went  down 

102 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

the  three  long  flights  and  out  into  the  brightness 
of  the  winter  day. 

On  the  Ring  she  almost  ran  into  Peter.  He 
was  striding  toward  her,  giving  a  definite  im- 
pression of  being  bound  for  some  particular  des- 
tination and  of  being  behind  time.  That  this 
was  not  the  case  was  shown  by  the  celerity 
with  which,  when  he  saw  Harmony,  he  turned 
about  and  walked  with  her. 

"I  had  an  hour  or  two,"  he  explained,  "and 
I  thought  I  'd  walk.  But  walking  is  a  social 
habit,  like  drinking.  I  hate  to  walk  alone. 
How  about  the  Frau  Professor?" 

"  She  has  taken  me  on.  I  'm  very  happy.  But, 
Dr.  Byrne  - 

"You  called  rne  Peter  last  night." 

"That  was  different.  You  had  just  proposed 
to  me." 

"Oh,  if  that's  all  that's  necessary-  He 
stopped  in  the  center  of  the  busy  Ring  with  every 
evident  intention  of  proposing  again. 

"Please,  Peter!" 

"Aha!  Victory!  Well,  what  about  the  Frau 
Professor  Bergmeister?  " 

"  She  asks  so  many  questions  about  America; 
and  I  cannot  answer  them." 

"For  instance?" 

"  Well,  taxes  now.  She 's  very  much  interested 
in  taxes." 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Never  owned  anything  taxable  except  a 
dog  —  and  that  wasn't  a  tax  anyhow;  it 
was  a  license.  Can't  you  switch  her  on  to 
medicine  or  surgery,  where  I'd  be  of  some 
use?" 

"She  says  to-morrow  we'll  talk  of  the  tariff 
and  customs  duties." 

"Well,  I've  got  something  to  say  on  that." 
He  pulled  from  his  overcoat  pocket  a  largish 
bundle  —  Peter  always  bulged  with  packages 
—  and  held  it  out  for  her  to  see.  "Tell  the  Frau 
Professor  Bergmeister  with  my  compliments," 
he  said,  "that  because  some  idiot  at  home  sent 
me  five  pounds  of  tobacco,  hearing  from  afar 
my  groans  over  the  tobacco  here,  I  have  passed 
from  mere  financial  stress  to  destitution.  The 
Austrian  customs  have  taken  from  me  to-day 
the  equivalent  of  ten  dollars  in  duty.  I  offered 
them  the  tobacco  on  bended  knee,  but  they 
scorned  it." 

"Really,  Peter?" 

"Really." 

Under  this  lightness  Harmony  sensed  the 
real  anxiety.  Ten  dollars  was  fifty  Kronen, 
and  fifty  Kronen  was  a  great  deal  of  money. 
She  reached  over  and  patted  his  arm. 

'You'll  make  it  up  in  some  way.  Can't 
you  cut  off  some  little  extravagance?" 

"I  might  cut  down  on  my  tailor  bills."  He 
104 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

looked  down  at  himself  whimsically.    "Or  on 
ties.    I  'm  positively  reckless  about  ties ! " 

They  walked  on  in  silence.  A  detachment 
of  soldiery,  busy  with  that  eternal  military  ac- 
tivity that  seems  to  get  nowhere,  passed  on  a 
dog-trot.  Peter  looked  at  them  critically. 

"Bosnians,"  he  observed.  "Raw,  half -fed 
troops  from  Bosnia,  nine  out  of  ten  of  them 
tubercular.  It's  a  rotten  game,  this  military 
play  of  Europe.  How's  Jimmy?" 

"We  left  him  very  happy  with  your  letter.'" 

Peter  flushed.  "I  expect  it  was  pretty  poor 
stuff,"  he  apologized.  "I've  never  seen  the  Alps 
except  from  a  train  window,  and  as  for  a, 
chamois  - 

"He  says  his  father  will  surely  send  him  the 
horns." 

Peter  groaned. 

"Of  course!"  he  said.  "Why,  in  Heaven's- 
name,  did  n't  I  make  it  an  eagle?  One  can 
always  buy  a  feather  or  two.  But  horns? 
He  really  liked  the  letter?" 

"He  adored  it.  He  went  to  sleep  almost 
at  once  with  it  in  his  hands." 

Peter  glowed.  The  small  irritation  of  the 
custom-house  forgotten,  he  talked  of  Jimmy; 
of  what  had  been  done  and  might  still  be 
done,  if  only  there  were  money;  and  from  Jimmy 
he  talked  boy.  He  had  had  a  boys'  club  at 

105 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

home   during  his   short   experience   in   general 
practice.   Boys  were  his  hobby. 

"Scum  of  the  earth,  most  of  them,"  he  said, 
his  plain  face  glowing.  "Dirty  little  beggars 
off  the  street.  At  first  they  stole  my  tobacco, 
and  one  of  them  pawned  a  medical  book  or 
two!  Then  they  got  to  playing  the  game  right. 
By  Jove,  Harmony,  I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
them !  Used  to  line  'em  up  and  make  'em  spell, 
and  the  two  best  spellers  were  allowed  to  fight 
it  out  with  gloves  —  my  own  method,  and  it 
worked.  Spell!  They'd  spell  their  heads  off 
to  get  a  chance  at  the  gloves.  Gee,  how  I 
hated  to  give  them  up!" 

This  was  a  new  Peter,  a  boyish  individual 
Harmony  had  never  met  before.  For  the  first 
time  it  struck  her  that  Peter  was  young.  He 
had  always  seemed  rather  old,  solid  and  depend- 
able, the  fault  of  his  elder  brother  attitude  to 
her,  no  doubt.  She  was  suddenly  rather  shy,  a 
bit  aloof.  Peter  felt  the  change  and  thought 
she  was  bored.  He  talked  of  other  things. 

A  surprise  was  waiting  for  them  in  the  cold 
lower  hallway  of  the  Pension  Schwarz.  A  trunk 
was  there,  locked  and  roped,  and  on  the  trunk, 
in  ulster  and  hat,  sat  Dr.  Gates.  Olga,  looking 
rather  frightened,  was  coming  down  with  a 
traveling-bag.  She  put  down  the  bag  and  scut- 
tled up  the  staircase  like  a  scared  rabbit. 

106 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  little  doctor  was  grim.  She  eyed  Peter 
and  Harmony  with  an  impersonal  hostility,  refer- 
able to  her  humor. 

"I've  been  waiting  for  you  two,"  she  flung 
at  them.  "I  've  had  a  terrific  row  upstairs  and 
I'm  going.  That  woman's  a  devil!" 

It  had  been  a  bad  day  for  Harmony,  and  this 
new  development,  after  everything  else,  assumed 
the  proportions  of  a  crisis.  She  had  clung,  at 
first  out  of  sheer  loneliness  and  recently  out  of 
affection,  to  the  sharp  little  doctor  with  her 
mannish  affectations,  her  soft  and  womanly 
heart. 

"Sit  down,  child."  Anna  Gates  moved  over 
on  the  trunk.  "You  are  fagged  out.  Peter, 
will  you  stop  looking  murderous  and  listen  to 
me?  How  much  did  it  cost  the  three  of  us  to 
live  in  this  abode  of  virtue?" 

It  was  simple  addition.  The  total  was  rather 
appalling. 

"I  thought  so.  Now  this  is  my  plan.  It 
may  not  be  conventional,  but  it  will  be  respec- 
table enough  to  satisfy  anybody.  And  it  will 
be  cheaper,  I  'm  sure  of  that :  We  are  all  going 
out  to  the  hunting-lodge  of  Maria  Theresa,  and 
Harmony  shall  keep  house  for  us!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

IT  was  the  middle  of  November  when  Anna 
Gates,  sitting  on  her  trunk  in  the  cold  en- 
trance  hall   on   the   Hirschengasse,   flung   the 
conversational    bomb    that    left    empty    three 
rooms  in  the  Pension  Schwarz. 

Mid-December  found  Harmony  back  and 
fully  established  in  the  lodge  of  Maria  Theresa 
on  the  Street  of  Seven  Stars  —  back,  but  with 
a  difference.  True,  the  gate  still  swung  back 
and  forward  on  rusty  hinges,  obedient  to  every 
whim  of  the  December  gales;  but  the  casement 
windows  in  the  salon  no  longer  creaked  or  ad- 
mitted drafts,  thanks  to  Peter  and  a  roll  of 
rubber  weather-casing.  The  grand  piano,  which 
had  been  Scatchy's  rented  extravagance,  had 
gone  never  to  return,  and  in  its  corner  stood  a 
battered  but  still  usable  upright.  Under  the 
great  chandelier  sat  a  table  with  an  oil  lamp, 
and  evening  and  morning  the  white-tiled  stove 
gleamed  warm  with  fire.  On  the  table  by  the 
lamp  were  the  combined  medical  books  of 
Peter  and  Anna  Gates,  and  an  ash-tray  which 
also  they  used  in  common. 

Shabby  still,  of  course,  bare,  almost  denuded. 
108 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

the  salon  of  Maria  Theresa.  But  at  night,  with 
the  lamp  lighted  and  the  little  door  of  the 
stove  open,  and  perhaps,  when  the  dishes  from 
supper  had  been  washed,  with  Harmony  play- 
ing softly,  it  took  resolution  on  Peter's  .part 
to  put  on  his  overcoat  and  face  a  lecture  on  the 
resection  of  a  rib  or  a  discussion  of  the  function 
of  the  pituitary  body. 

The  new  arrangement  had  proved  itself  in 
more  ways  than  one  not  only  greater  in  comfort 
but  in  economy.  Food  was  amazingly  cheap. 
Coal,  which  had  cost  ninety  Hellers  a  bucket  at 
the  Pension  Schwarz,  they  bought  in  quantity 
and  could  afford  to  use  lavishly.  Oil  for  the 
lamp  was  a  trifle.  They  dined  on  venison  now 
and  then,  when  the  shop  across  boasted  a  deer 
from  the  mountains.  They  had  other  game 
occasionally,  when  Peter,  carrying  home  a 
mysterious  package,  would  make  them  guess 
what  it  might  contain.  Always  on  such  occa- 
sions Harmony  guessed  rabbits.  She  knew  how 
to  cook  rabbits,  and  some  of  the  other  game 
worried  her. 

For  Harmony  was  the  cook.  It  had  taken 
many  arguments  and  much  coaxing  to  make 
Peter  see  it  that  way.  In  vain  Harmony  argued 
the  extravagance  01  Rosa,  now  married  to  the 
soldier  from  Salzburg  with  one  lung,  or  the 
tendency  of  the  delicatessen  seller  to  weigh 

109 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

short  if  one  did  not  watch  him.  Peter  was 
firm. 

It  was  Dr.  Gates,  after  all,  who  found  the 
solution. 

"Don't  be  too  obstinate,  Peter,"  she  admon- 
ished him.  "The  child  needs  occupation;  she 
can't  practice  all  day.  You  and  I  can  keep  up 
the  financial  end  well  enough,  reduced  as  it  is. 
Let  her  keep  house  to  her  heart's  content. 
That  can  be  her  contribution  to  the  general 
fund." 

And  that  eventually  was  the  way  it  settled 
itself,  not  without  demur  from  Harmony,  who 
feared  her  part  was  too  small,  and  who  irri- 
tated Anna  almost  to  a  frenzy  by  cleaning  the 
apartment  from  end  to  end  to  make  certain  of 
lier  usefulness. 

A  curious  little  household  surely,  one  that 
made  the  wife  of  the  Portier  shake  her  head, 
and  speak  much  beneath  her  breath  with  the 
wife  of  the  brushmaker  about  the  Americans 
having  queer  ways  and  not  as  the  Austrians. 

The  short  month  had  seen  a  change  in  all 
of  them.  Peter  showed  it  least  of  all,  perhaps. 
Men  feel  physical  discomfort  less  keenly  than 
women,  and  Peter  had  been  only  subconsciously 
wretched.  He  had  gained  a  pound  or  two  in 
flesh,  perhaps,  and  he  was  unmistakably  tidier. 
Anna  Gates  was  growing  round  and  rosy,  and 

110 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony  had  trimmed  her  a  hat.    But  the  real 
change  was  in  Harmony  herself. 

The  girl  had  become  a  woman.  Who  knows 
the  curious  psychology  by  which  such  changes 
come  —  not  in  a  month  or  a  year;  but  in  an 
hour,  a  breath.  One  moment  Harmony  was  a 
shy,  tender  young  creature,  all  emotion,  quiv- 
ering at  a  word,  aloof  at  a  glance,  prone  to 
occasional  introspection  and  mysterious  day- 
dreams; the  next  she  was  a  young  woman, 
tender  but  not  shyly  so,  incredibly  poised,  al- 
most formidably  dignified  on  occasion,  but  with 
little  girlish  lapses  into  frolic  and  high  spirits. 

The  transition  moment  with  Harmony  came 
about  in  this  wise:  They  had  been  settled  for 
three  weeks.  The  odor  of  stewing  cabbages 
at  the  Pension  Schwarz  had  retired  into  the 
oblivion  of  lost  scents,  to  be  recalled,  along 
with  its  accompanying  memory  of  discomfort, 
with  every  odor  of  stewing  cabbages  for  years 
to  come.  At  the  hospital  Jimmy  had  had  a 
bad  week  again.  It  had  been  an  anxious  time 
for  all  of  them.  In  vain  the  sentry  had  stopped 
outside  the  third  window  and  smiled  and 
nodded  through  it;  in  vain  —  when  the  street 
was  deserted  and  there  was  none  to  notice  - 
he  went  through  a  bit  of  the  manual  of  arms  on 
the  pavement  outside,  ending  by  setting  his 
gun  down  with  a  martial  and  ringing  clang. 

Ill 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

In  vain  had  Peter  exhausted  himself  in  lite- 
rary efforts,  climbing  unheard-of  peaks,  taking 
walking-tours  through  such  a  Switzerland  as 
never  was,  shooting  animals  of  various  sorts, 
but  all  hornless,  as  he  carefully  emphasized. 

And  now  Jimmy  was  better  again.  He  was 
propped  up  in  bed,  and  with  the  aid  of  Nurse 
Elisabet  he  had  cut  out  a  paper  sentry  and 
set  it  in  the  barred  window.  The  real  sentry 
had  been  very  much  astonished;  he  had  almost 
fallen  over  backward.  On  recovering  he  went 
entirely  through  the  manual  of  arms,  and  was 
almost  seen  by  an  Oberst-lieutenant.  It  was 
all  most  exciting. 

Harmony  had  been  to  see  Jimmy  on  the  day 
in  question.  She  had  taken  him  some  gelatin, 
not  without  apprehension,  it  being  her  first 
essay  in  jelly  and  Jimmy  being  frank  with  the 
candor  of  childhood.  The  jelly  had  been  a 
great  success. 

It  was  when  she  was  about  to  go  that  Jimmy 
broached  a  matter  very  near  his  heart. 

"The  horns  haven't  come,  have  they?"  he 
asked  wistfully. 

"No,  not  yet." 

"Do  you  think  he  got  my  letter  about  them? '* 

"He  answered  it,  did  n't  he?" 

Jimmy  drew  a  long  breath.  "It's  very  funny. 
He's  mostly  so  quick.  If  I  had  the  horns,  Sister 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Elisabet  would  tie  them  there  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed.    And  I  could  pretend  I  was  hunting." 

Harmony  had  a  great  piece  of  luck  that  day. 
As  she  went  home  she  saw  hanging  hi  front  of 
the   wild-game   shop   next  to   the   delicatessen 
store  a  fresh  deer,  and  this  time  it  was  a  stag 
Like  the  others  it  hung  head  down,  and  as  i 
swayed   on   its  hook  its   great   antlers   tappec 
against  the  shop  door  as  if  mutely  begging  ad- 
mission. 

She  could  not  buy  the  antlers.  In  vain  she 
pleaded,  explained,  implored.  Harmony  enlisted 
the  Portier,  and  took  him  across  with  her.  The 
wild-game  seller  was  obdurate.  He  would  sell 
the  deer  entire,  or  he  would  mount  head  and 
antlers  for  his  wife's  cousin  in  Galicia  as  a 
Christmas  gift. 

Harmony  went  back  to  the  lodge  and  climbed 
the  stairs.  She  was  profoundly  depressed. 
Even  the  discovery  that  Peter  had  come  home 
early  and  was  building  a  fire  in  the  kitchen 
brought  only  a  fleeting  smile.  Anna  was  not 
yet  home. 

Peter  built  the  fire.  The  winter  dusk  was 
falling  and  Harmony  made  a  movement  to 
light  the  candles.  Peter  stopped  her. 

"Can't  we  have  the  firelight  for  a  little  while? 
You  are  always  beautiful,  but  —  you  are  lovely 
in  the  firelight,  Harmony." 

113 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"That  is  because  you  like  me.  We  always 
think  our  friends  are  beautiful." 

"I  am  fond  of  Anna,  but  I  have  never  thought 
her  beautiful." 

The  kitchen  was  small.  Harmony,  rolling 
up  her  sleeves  by  the  table,  and  Peter  before 
the  stove  were  very  close  together.  The  dusk 
was  fast  fading  into  darkness;  to  this  tiny  room 
at  the  back  of  the  old  house  few  street  sounds 
penetrated.  Round  them,  shutting  them  off 
together  from  the  world  of  shops  with  lighted 
windows,  rumbling  busses  and  hurrying  hu- 
manity, lay  the  old  lodge  with  its  dingy 
gardens,  its  whitewashed  halls,  its  dark  and 
twisting  staircases. 

Peter  had  been  very  careful.  He  had  cul- 
tivated a  comradely  manner  with  the  girl 
that  had  kept  her  entirely  at  her  ease  with 
him.  But  it  had  been  growing  increas- 
ingly hard.  He  was  only  human  after  all. 
And  he  was  very  comfortable.  Love,  healthy 
human  love,  thrives  on  physical  ease.  Indi- 
gestion is  a  greater  foe  to  it  than  poverty. 
Great  love  songs  are  written,  not  by  poets 
starving  in  hall  bedrooms,  with  insistent  hun- 
ger gnawing  and  undermining  all  that  is  of 
the  spirit,  but  by  full-fed  gentlemen  who  sing 
out  of  an  overflowing  of  content  and  wide  fel- 
lowship, and  who  write,  no  doubt,  just  after 

114 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

dinner.  Love,  being  a  hunger,  does  not  thrive 
on  hunger. 

Thus  Peter.  He  had  never  found  women 
essential,  being  occupied  in  the  struggle  for 
other  essentials.  Women  had  had  little  part  in 
his  busy  life.  Once  or  twice  he  had  seen  visions, 
dreamed  dreams,  to  waken  himself  savagely  to 
the  fact  that  not  for  many  years  could  he  afford 
the  luxury  of  tender  eyes  looking  up  into  his, 
of  soft  arms  about  his  neck.  So  he  had  kept 
away  from  women  with  almost  ferocious  de- 
termination. And  now! 

He  drew  a  chair  before  the  stove  and  sat  down. 
Standing  or  sitting,  he  was  much  too  large  for 
the  kitchen.  He  sat  in  the  chair,  with  his  hands 
hanging,  fingers  interlaced  between  his  knees. 

The  firelight  glowed  over  his  strong,  rather 
irregular  features.  Harmony,  knife  poised  over 
the  evening's  potatoes,  looked  at  him. 

"I  think  you  are  sad  to-night,  Peter." 

"Depressed  a  bit.   That's  all." 

"It  is  n't  money  again?" 

It  was  generally  money  with  any  of  the  three, 
and  only  the  week  before  Peter  had  found  an 
error  in  his  bank  balance  which  meant  that  he 
was  a  hundred  Kronen  or  so  poorer  than  he 
had  thought.  This  discovery  had  been  very 
upsetting. 

"Not  more  than  usual.  Don't  mind  me. 
115 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

I'll  probably  end  in  a  roaring  bad  temper  and 
smash  something.  My  moody  spells  often  break 
up  that  way!" 

Harmony  put  down  the  paring-knife,  and 
going  over  to  where  he  sat  rested  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  Peter  drew  away  from  it. 

"I  have  hurt  you  in  some  way?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"Could  —  could  you  talk  about  whatever  it 
is?  That  helps  sometimes." 

"You  would  n't  understand." 

"You  haven't  quarreled  with  Anna?"  Har- 
mony asked,  real  concern  in  her  voice. 

"No.  Good  Lord,  Harmony,  don't  ask  me 
what 's  wrong!  I  don't  know  myself." 

He  got  up  almost  violently  and  set  the 
little  chair  back  against  the  wall.  Hurt  and 
astonished,  Harmony  went  back  to  the  table. 
The  kitchen  was  entirely  dark,  save  for  the 
firelight,  which  gleamed  on  the  bare  floor 
and  the  red  legs  of  the  table.  She  was  fum- 
bling with  a  match  rand  the  candle  when 
she  realized  that  Peter  was  just  behind  her, 
very  close. 

"Dearest,"  he  said  huskily.  The  next  mo- 
ment he  had  caught  her  to  him,  was  kissing  her 
lips,  her  hair. 

Harmony's  heart  beat  wildly.  There  was  no 
use  struggling  against  him.  The  gates  of  his 

116 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

self-control  were  down:    all  his  loneliness,  his 
starved  senses  rushed  forth  in  tardy  assertion. 

After  a  moment  Peter  kissed  her  eyelids  very 
gently  and  let  her  go.  Harmony  was  trembling, 
but  with  shock  and  alarm  only.  The  storm  that 
had  torn  him  root  and  branch  from  his  firm 
ground  of  self-restraint  left  her  only  shaken. 
He  was  still  very  close  to  her;  she  could  hear  him 
breathing.  He  did  not  attempt  to  speak. 
With  every  atom  of  strength  that  was  left  in 
him  he  was  fighting  a  mad  desire  to  take  her  in 
his  arms  again  and  keep  her  there. 

That  was  the  moment  when  Harmony  became 
a  woman. 

She  lighted  the  candle  with  the  match  she 
still  held.  Then  she  turned  and  faced  him. 

"That  sort  of  thing  is  not  for  you  and  me. 
Peter,"  she  said  quietly. 

"Why  not?" 

"There  is  n't  any  question  about  it." 

He  was  still  reckless,  even  argumentative; 
the  crying  need  of  her  still  obsessed  him. 

"Why  not?  Why  should  I  not  take  you  in 
my  arms?  If  there  is  a  moment  of  happiness 
to  be  had  in  this  grind  of  work  and  loneliness  - 

"It  has  not  made  me  happy." 

Perhaps  nothing  else  she  could  have  said 
would  have  been  so  effectual.  Love  demands 
reciprocation;  he  could  read  no  passion  in  her 

117 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

voice.    He  knew  then  that  he  had  left  her  un- 
stirred.  He  dropped  his  outstretched  arms. 
"I'm  sorry.  I  did  n't  mean  to  do  it." 
"I  would  rather  not  talk  about  it,  please." 
The  banging  of  a  door  far  off  told  them  that 
Anna  Gates  had  arrived  and  was  taking  off  her 
goloshes  in  the  entry.   Peter  drew  a  long  breath, 
and,  after  his  habit,  shook  himself. 

"Very  well,  we'll  not  talk  of  it.  But,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  Harmony,  don't  avoid  me.  I'm 
not  a  cad.  I'll  let  you  alone." 

There  was  only  time  for  a  glance  of  under- 
standing between  them,  of  promise  from  Peter, 
of  acceptance  from  the  girl.  When  Anna  Gates 
entered  the  kitchen  she  found  Harmony  peeling 
potatoes  and  Peter  filling  up  an  already  over- 
fed stove. 

That  night,  during  that  darkest  hour  before 
the  dawn  when  the  thrifty  city  fathers  of  the 
old  town  had  shut  off  the  street  lights  because 
two  hours  later  the  sun  would  rise  and  furnish 
light  that  cost  the  taxpayers  nothing,  the 
Portier's  wife  awakened. 

The  room  was  very  silent,  too  silent.  On 
those  rare  occasions  when  the  Portier's  wife 
awakened  in  the  night  and  heard  the  twin 
clocks  of  the  Votivkirche  strike  three,  and  list- 
ened, perhaps,  while  the  delicatessen  seller 

118 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

ambled  home  from  the  Schubert  Society,  sing- 
ing beerily  as  he  ambled,  she  was  wont  to  hear 
from  the  bed  beside  hers  the  rhythmic  respira- 
tion that  told  her  how  safe  from  Schubert 
Societies  and  such  like  evils  was  her  lord. 
There  was  no  sound  at  all. 

The  Portier's  wife  raised  herself  on  her  elbow 
and  reached  over.  Owing  to  the  width  of  the 
table  that  stood  between  the  beds  and  to  a 
sweeping  that  day  which  had  left  the  beds  far 
apart  she  met  nothing  but  empty  air.  Words 
had  small  effect  on  the  Portier,  who  slept 
fathoms  deep  in  unconsciousness.  Also  she  did 
not  wish  to  get  up  —  the  floor  was  cold  and  a 
wind  blowing.  Could  she  not  hear  it  and  the 
creaking  of  the  deer  across  the  street,  as  it 
swung  on  its  hook? 

The  wife  of  the  Portier  was  a  person  of  re- 
source. She  took  the  iron  candlestick  from  the 
table  and  flung  it  into  the  darkness  at  the  Por- 
tier's pillow.  No  startled  yell  followed. 

Suspicion  thus  confirmed,  the  Portier's  wife 
forgot  the  cold  floor  and  the  wind,  and  barefoot 
felt  her  way  into  the  hall. 

Suspicion  wras  doubly  confirmed.  The  chain 
was  off  the  door;  it  even  stood  open  an  inch  or 
two. 

Armed  with  a  second  candlestick  she  sta- 
tioned herself  inside  the  door  and 

119 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  stone  floor  was  icy,  but  the  fury  of  a  woman 
scorned  kept  her  warm.  The  Yotivkirche  struck 
one,  two,  three  quarters  of  an  hour.  The  can- 
dlestick in  her  hand  changed  from  iron  to  ice, 
from  ice  to  red-hot  fire.  Still  the  Portier  had 
not  come  back  and  the  door  chain  swung  in  the 
wind. 

At  four  o'clock  she  retired  to  the  bedroom 
again.  Indignation  had  changed  to  fear,  cou- 
pled with  sneezing.  Surely  even  the  Schubert 
Society  —  What  was  that? 

From  the  Portier's  bed  was  coming  a  rhyth- 
mic respiration! 

She  roused  him,  standing  over  him  with  the 
iron  candlestick,  now  lighted,  and  gazing  at 
him  with  eyes  in  which  alarm  struggled  with 
suspicion. 

"Thou  hast  been  out  of  thy  bed!" 

"But  no!" 

"An  hour  since  the  bed  was  empty." 

"Thou  dreamest." 

"The  chain  is  off  the  door." 

"Let  it  remain  so  and  sleep.  What  have  we 
to  steal  or  the  Americans  above?  Sleep  and  keep 
peace." 

He  yawned  and  was  instantly  asleep  again. 
The  Portier's  wife  crawled  into  her  bed  and 
warmed  her  aching  feet  under  the  crimson 
feather  comfort.  But  her  soul  was  shaken^ 

120 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  Devil  had  been  known  to  come  at  night 
and  take  innocent  ones  out  to  do  his  evil.  The 
innocent  ones  knew  it  not,  but  it  might  be  told 
by  the  soles  of  the  feet,  which  were  always 
soiled. 

At  dawn  the  Portier's  wife  cautiously  un- 
covered the  soles  of  her  sleeping  lord's  feet, 
and  fell  back  gasping.  They  were  quite  black, 
as  of  one  who  had  tramped  in  garden  mould. 

Early  the  next  morning  Harmony,  after  a 
restless  night,  opened  the  door  from  the  salon 
of  Maria  Theresa  into  the  hall  and  set  out  a 
pitcher  for  the  milk. 

On  the  floor,  just  outside,  lay  the  antlers  from 
the  deer  across  the  street.  Tied  to  them  was  a 
bit  of  paper,  and  on  it  was  written  the  one 
word,  "Still!" 


CHAPTER  X 

I  1ST  looking  back  after  a  catastrophe  it  is  easy 
to  trace  the  steps  by  which  the  inevitable 
advanced.  Destiny  inarches,  not  by  great 
leaps  but  with  a  thousand  small  and  painful 
steps,  and  here  and  there  it  leaves  its  mark,  a 
footprint  on  a  naked  soul.  We  trace  a  life  by 
its  scars,  as  a  tree  by  its  rings. 

Anna  Gates  was  not  the  best  possible  com- 
panion for  Harmony,  and  this  with  every  al- 
lowance for  her  real  kindliness,  her  genuine 
affection  for  the  girl.  Life  had  destroyed  her 
illusions,  and  it  was  of  illusions  that  Harmony's 
veil  had  been  woven.  To  Anna  Gates,  worn 
with  a  thousand  sleepless  nights,  a  thousand 
thankless  days,  withered  before  her  time  with 
the  struggling  routine  of  medical  practice, 
sapped  with  endless  calls  for  sympathy  and  aid, 
existence  ceased  to  be  spiritual  and  became 
physiological. 

Life  and  birth  and  death  had  lost  their 
mysteries.  The  veil  was  rent. 

To  fit  this  existence  of  hers  she  had  built 
herself  a  curious  creed,  .a  philosophy  of  in- 
dividualism, from  behind  which  she  flung 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

grange  bombshells  of  theories,  shafts  of  dis- 
torted moralities,  personal  liberties,  irresponsi- 
bilities, a  supreme  scorn  for  modern  law  and 
the  prophets.  Nature,  she  claimed,  was  her 
law  and  her  prophet. 

Li  her  hard-working,  virginal  life  her  theories 
had  wrought  no  mischief.  Temptation  had  been 
lacking  to  exploit  them,  and  even  in  the  event 
of  tlie  opportunity  it  was  doubtful  whether 
she  -would  have  had  the  strength  of  her  con- 
victions. Men  love  theories,  but  seldom  have 
the  courage  of  them,  and  Anna  Gates  was 
largely  masculine.  Women,  being  literal,  are 
apt  to  absorb  dangerous  doctrine  and  put  it  to 
the  test.  When  it  is  false  doctrine  they  dis- 
cover it  too  late. 

Harmony  was  now  a  woman. 

Anna  would  have  cut  off  her  hand  sooner 
than  have  brought  the  girl  to  harm;  but  she 
loved  to  generalize.  It  amused  her  to  see  Har- 
mony's eyes  widen  with  horror  at  one  of  her 
radical  beliefs.  Nothing  pleased  her  more  than 
to  pit  her  individualism  against  the  girl's  rigid 
and  conventional  morality,  and  down  her  by 
some  apparently  unanswerable  argument. 

On  the  day  after  the  incident  in  the  kitchen 
such  an  argument  took  place  —  hardly  an  argu- 
ment, for  Harmony  knew  nothing  of  mental 
fencing.  Anna  had  taken  a  heavy  cold,  and 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

remained  at  home.  Harmony  had  been  prac- 
ticing, and  at  the  end  she  played  a  little  winter 
song  by  some  modern  composer.  It  breathed 
all  the  purity  of  a  white  winter's  day;  it  was  as 
chaste  as  ice  and  as  cold;  and  yet  throughout 
was  the  thought  of  green  things  hiding  beneath 
the  snow  and  the  hope  of  spring. 

Harmony,  having  finished,  voiced  some  such 
feeling.  She  was  rather  ashamed  of  her  thought. 

"It  seems  that  way  to  me,"  she  finished 
apologetically.  "  It  sounds  rather  silly .  I  always 
think  I  can  tell  the  sort  of  person  who  composes 
certain  things." 

"And  this  gentleman  who  writes  of  winter?" 

"I  think  he  is  very  reserved.  And  that  he 
has  never  loved  any  one." 

"Indeed!" 

"When  there  is  any  love  in  music,  any  heart, 
one  always  feels  it,  exactly  as  in  books  —  the 
difference  between  a  love  story  and  —  and  - 
-  a  dictionary ! " 

"You  always  laugh,"  Harmony  complained. 

"That's  better  than  weeping.  When  I  think 
of  the  rotten  way  things  go  in  this  world  I 
want  to  weep  always." 

"I  don't  find  it  a  bad  world.  Of  course  there 
are  bad  people,  but  there  are  good  ones." 

"Where?   Peter  and  you  and  I,  I  suppose." 

"There  are  plenty  of  good  men." 
124 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"What  do  you  call  a  good  man?" 

Harmony  hesitated,  then  went  on  bravely :  — 

"Honorable  men." 

Anna  smiled.  "My  dear  child,"  she  said^ 
"you  substitute  the  code  of  a  gentleman  for 
the  Mosaic  Law.  Of  course  your  good  man  is 
a  monogamist?" 

Harmony  nodded,  puzzled  eyes  on  Anna. 

"Then  there  are  no  'good'  people  in  the 
polygamous  countries,  I  suppose!  When  there 
were  twelve  women  to  every  man,  a  man  took 
a  dozen  wives.  To-day  in  our  part  of  the  globe 
there  is  one  woman  —  and  a  fifth  over  —  for 
every  man.  Each  man  gets  one  woman,  and  for 
every  five  couples  there  is  a  derelict  like  myself, 
mateless." 

Anna's  amazing  frankness  about  herself  often 
confused  Harmony.  Her  resentment  at  her 
single  condition,  because  it  left  her  childless, 
brought  forth  theories  that  shocked  and  alarmed 
the  girl.  In  the  atmosphere  in  which  Harmony 
had  been  reared  single  women  were  always  pre- 
sumed to  be  thus  by  choice  and  to  regard  with 
a  certain  tolerance  those  weaker  sisters  who  had 
married.  Anna,  on  the  contrary,  was  frankly  a 
derelict,  frankly  regretted  her  maiden  condition 
and  railed  with  bitterness  against  her  enforced 
childlessness.  The  near  approach  of  Christmas 
had  for  year?  ^und  her  morose  and  resentful. 

125 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

There  are,  here  and  there,  such  women,  essen- 
tially mothers  but  not  necessarily  wives,  their 
sole  passion  that  of  maternity. 

Anna,  argumentative  and  reckless,  talked  on. 
She  tore  away,  in  her  resentment,  every  theory 
of  existence  the  girl  had  ever  known,  and  offered 
her  instead  an  incredible  liberty  in  the  name 
of  the  freedom  of  the  individual.  Harmony 
found  all  her  foundations  of  living  shaken, 
and  though  refusing  to  accept  Anna's  theories, 
found  her  faith  in  her  own  weakened.  She  sat 
back,  pale  and  silent,  listening,  while  Anna  built 
up  out  of  her  discontent  a  new  heaven  and 
a  new  earth,  with  liberty  written  high  in  its 
firmament. 

When  her  reckless  mood  had  passed  Anna  was 
regretful  enough  at  the  girl's  stricken  face. 

"I'm  a  fool!"  she  said  contritely.  "If  Peter 
had  been  here  he  'd  have  throttled  me.  I  deserve 
it.  I  'm  a  theorist,  pure  and  simple,  and  theorists 
are  the  anarchists  of  society.  There  's  only  one 
comfort  about  us  —  we  never  live  up  to  our 
convictions.  Now  forget  all  this  rot  I  've  been 
talking." 

Peter  brought  up  the  mail  that  afternoon, 
a  Christmas  card  or  two  for  Anna,  depressingly 
early,  and  a  letter  from  the  Big  Soprano  for 
Harmony  from  New  York.  The  Big  Soprano 

126 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

was  very  glad  to  be  back  and  spent  two  pages 
over  her  chances  for  concert  work. 

"...  I  could  have  done  as  well  had  I  stayed 
at  home.  If  I  had  had  the  money  they 
wanted,  to  go  to  Geneva  and  sing  'Brunn- 
hilde,'  it  would  have  helped  a  lot.  I  could 
have  said  I'd  sung  in  opera  in  Europe  and 
at  least  have  had  a  hearing  at  the  Met.  But 
I  did  n't,  and  I  'm  back  at  the  church  again 
and  glad  to  get  my  old  salary.  If  it's  at  all 
possible,  stay  until  the  master  has  presented 
you  in  a  concert.  He 's  quite  right,  you  have  n't 
a  chance  unless  he  does.  And  now  I'll  quit 
grumbling. 

"Scatchy  met  her  Henry  at  the  dock  and 
looked  quite  lovely,  flushed  with  excitement 
and  having  been  up  since  dawn  curling  her  hair. 
He  was  rather  a  disappointment  —  small  and 
blond,  with  light  blue  eyes,  and  almost  dapper. 
But  oh,  my  dear,  I  would  n't  care  how  pale  a 
man's  eyes  were  if  he  looked  at  me  the  way 
Henry  looked  at  her. 

"They  asked  me  to  luncheon  with  them,  but 
I  knew  they  wanted  to  be  alone  together,  and 
so  I  ate  a  bite  or  two,  all  I  could  swallow  for  the 
lump  in  my  throat,  by  myself.  I  was  homesick 
enough  in  old  Wien,  but  I  am  just  as  home- 
sick now  that  I  am  here,  for  we  are  really 

127 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

homesick  only  for  people,  not  places.    And  no 
one  really  cared  whether  I  came  back  or  not." 

Peter  had  been  miserable  all  day,  not  with 
regret  for  the  day  before,  but  with  fear.  What 
if  Harmony  should  decide  that  the  situation 
was  unpleasant  and  decide  to  leave?  What  if 
a  reckless  impulse,  recklessly  carried  out,  w^ere 
to  break  up  an  arrangement  that  had  made 
a  green  oasis  of  happiness  and  content  for  all 
of  them  in  the  desert  of  their  common  despair? 

If  he  had  only  let  her  go  and  apologized! 
But  no,  he  had  had  to  argue,  to  justify  himself., 
to  make  an  idiot  of  himself  generally.  He  almost 
groaned  aloud  as  he  opened  the  gate  and  crossed 
the  wintry  garden. 

He  need  not  have  feared.  Harmony  had  taken 
him  entirely  at  his  word.  "I  am  not  a  beast. 
I  '11  let  you  alone,"  he  had  said.  She  had  had  a 
bad  night,  as  nights  go.  She  had  gone  through 
the  painful  introspection  which,  in  a  thoroughly 
good  girl,  always  follows  such  an  outburst  as 
Peter's.  Had  she  said  or  done  anything  to 
make  him  think  -  -  Surely  she  had  not !  Had 
she  been  wrong  about  Peter  after  all?  Surely 
not  again. 

While  the  Portier's  wife,  waked,  as  may  hap- 
pen, by  an  unaccustomed  silence,  was  standing 
guard  in  the  hall  below,  iron  candlestick  in  hand, 

128 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony,  having  read  the  Litany  through  in 
the  not  particularly  religious  hope  of  getting 
to  sleep,  was  dreaming  placidly.  It  was  Peter 
who  tossed  and  turned  almost  all  night.  Truly 
there  had  been  little  sleep  that  night  in  the 
old  hunting-lodge  of  Maria  Theresa. 

Peter,  still  not  quite  at  ease,  that  evening 
kept  out  of  the  kitchen  while  supper  was  pre- 
paring. Anna,  radical  theories  forgotten  and 
wearing  a  knitted  shawl  against  drafts,  was  mak- 
ing a  salad,  and  Harmony,  all  anxiety  and 
flushed  with  heat,  was  broiling  a  steak. 

Steak  was  an  extravagance,  to  be  cooked 
with  clear  hot  coals  and  prayer. 

"Peter,'"  she  called,  "you  may  set  the  table. 
And  try  to  lay  the  cloth  straight." 

Peter,  exiled  in  the  salon,  came  joyously. 
Obviously  the  wretched  business  of  yesterday 
was  forgiven.  He  came  to  the  door,  pipe  in 
mouth. 

"Suppose  I  refuse?"  he  questioned.    "You  - 
you  have  n't  been  very  friendly  with  me  to-day, 
Harry." 

"I?" 

"Don't  quarrel,  you  children,"  cried  Anna, 
beating  eggs  vigorously.  "Harmony  is  always 
friendly,  too  friendly.  The  Portier  loves  her." 

"I'm  sure  I  said  good-evening  to  you." 

"You  usually  say,   'Good-evening,  Peter." 
129 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"And  I  did  not?" 

"You  did  not." 

"Then  —  Good-evening,  Peter." 

"Thank  you." 

His  steady  eyes  met  hers.  In  them  there  was 
a  renewal  of  his  yesterday's  promise,  abase- 
ment, regret.  Harmony  met  him  with  forgive- 
ness and  restoration. 

"Sometimes,"  said  Peter  humbly,  "when  I 
am  in  very  great  favor,  you  say,  *  Good-evening, 
Peter,  dear.'" 

"Good-evening,  Peter,  dear,"  said  Harmony. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  affairs  of  young  Stewart  and  Marie 
Jedlicka  were  not  moving  smoothly.  Hav- 
ing rented  their  apartment  to  the  Boyers,  and 
through  Marie's  frugality  and  the  extra  month's 
wages  at  Christmas,  which  was  Marie's  annual 
perquisite,  being  temporarily  in  funds  the  sky 
seemed  clear  enough,  and  Walter  Stewart 
started  on  his  holiday  with  a  comfortable  sense 
of  financial  security. 

Mrs.  Boyer,  shown  over  the  flat  by  Stewart 
•during  Marie's  temporary  exile  in  the  apart- 
ment across  the  hall,  was  captivated  by  the 
comfort  of  the  little  suite  and  by  its  order. 
Her  housewifely  mind,  restless  with  long  in- 
activity in  a  pension,  seized  on  the  bright  pans 
of  Marie's  kitchen  and  the  promise  of  the  brick- 
and-sheetiron  stove.  She  disapproved  of  Stew- 
art, having  heard  strange  stories  of  him,  but 
there  was  nothing  bacchanal  or  suspicious  about 
this  orderly  establishment.  Mrs.  Boyer  was  a 
placid,  motherly  looking  woman,  torn  from  her 
church  and  her  card  club,  her  grown  children, 
lier  household  gods  of  thirty  years'  accumulf- 

131 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

tion,   that  "Frank"  might   catch   up  with  his 
profession. 

She  had  explained  it  rather  tremulously  at 
home. 

"Father  wants  to  go,"  she  said.  "You  chil- 
dren are  big  enough  now  to  be  left.  He 's  always 
wanted  to  do  it,  but  we  could  n't  go  while  you 
were  little." 

"But,  mother!"  expostulated  the  oldest  girl. 
"When  you  are  so  afraid  of  the  ocean!  And  a 
year!" 

"What  is  to  be  will  be,"  she  had  replied. 
"If  I'm  going  to  be  drowned  I'll  be  drowned, 
whether  it's  in  the  sea  or  in  a  bathtub.  And  I'll 
not  let  father  go  alone." 

Fatalism  being  their  mother's  last  argument 
and  always  final,  the  children  gave  up.  They 
let  her  go.  More,  they  prepared  for  her  so  elab- 
orate a  wardrobe  that  the  poor  soul  had  had 
no  excuse  to  purchase  anything  abroad.  She 
had  gone  through  Paris  looking  straight  ahead 
lest  her  eyes  lead  her  into  the  temptation  of  the 
shops.  In  Vienna  she  wore  her  home-town  out- 
fit with  determination,  vaguely  conscious  that 
the  women  about  her  had  more  style,  were 
different.  She  priced  unsuitable  garments  wist- 
fully, and  went  home  to  her  trunks  full  of  best 
materials  that  would  never  wear  out.  The 
children,  knowing  her,  had  bought  the  best. 

132 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

To  this  couple,  then,  Stewart  had  rented 
his  apartment.  It  is  hard  to  say  by  what 
psychology  he  found  their  respectability  so 
satisfactory.  It  was  as  though  his  o\vn  status 
gained  by  it.  He  had  much  the  same  feeling 
about  the  order  and  decency  with  which  Marie 
managed  the  apartment,  as  if  irregularity  were 
thus  regularized. 

Marie  had  met  him  once  for  a  walk  along 
the  Graben.  She  had  worn  an  experimental 
touch  of  rouge  under  a  veil,  and  fine  lines  were 
drawn  under  her  blue  eyes,  darkening  them. 
She  had  looked  very  pretty,  rather  frightened. 
Stewart  had  sent  her  home  and  had  sulke'd  for 
an  entire  evening. 

So  curious  a  thing  is  the  mind  masculine, 
such  an  order  of  disorder,  so  conventional  its 
defiance  of  convention.  Stewart  breaking  the 
law  and  trying  to  keep  the  letter ! 

On  the  day  they  left  for  Semmering  Marie 
was  up  at  dawn.  There  was  much  to  do.  The 
house  must  be  left  clean  and  shining.  There 
must  be  no  feminine  gewgaws  to  reveal  to  the 
Frau  Doktor  that  it  was  not  a  purely  mascu- 
line establishment.  At  the  last  moment,  so 
late  that  it  sent  her  heart  into  her  mouth,  she 
happened  on  the  box  of  rouge  hidden  from  Stew- 
art's watchful  eyes.  She  gave  it  to  the  milk  girl. 

Finally  she  folded  her  meager  wardrobe  and 
133 


placed  it  in  the  Herr  Doktor's  American  trunk: 
a  marvel,  that  trunk,  so  firm,  so  heavy,  bound 
with  iron.  And  with  her  own  clothing  she  packed 
Stewart's,  the  dress-suit  he  had  worn  once  to 
the  Embassy,  a  hat  that  folded,  strange  Amer- 
ican shoes,  and  books  —  always  books.  The 
Herr  Doktor  would  study  at  Semmering.  When 
all  was  in  readiness  and  Stewart  was  taking  a 
final  survey,  Marie  ran  downstairs  and  sum- 
moned a  cab.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  ask 
him  to  do  it.  Marie's  small  life  was  one  of 
service,  and  besides  there  was  an  element  in 
their  relationship  that  no  one  but  Marie  sus- 
pected, and  that  she  hid  even  from  herself. 
She  was  very  much  in  love  with  this  indifferent 
American,  this  captious  temporary  god  of  her 
domestic  altar.  Such  a  contingency  had  never 
occurred  to  Stewart;  but  Peter,  smoking  gravely 
in  the  little  apartment,  had  more  than  once 
caught  a  look  in  Marie's  eyes  as  she  turned  them 
on  the  other  man,  and  had  surmised  it.  It  made 
him  uncomfortable. 

When  the  train  was  well  under  way,  however, 
and  he  found  no  disturbing  element  among 
the  three  others  in  the  compartment,  Stewart 
relaxed.  Semmering  was  a  favorite  resort  with 
the  American  colony,  but  not  until  later  in  the 
winter.  In  December  there  were  rains  in  the 
mountains,  and  low-lying  clouds  that  invested 

134 


some  of  the  chalets  in  constant  fog.  It  was  not 
until  the  middle  of  January  that  the  little 
mountain  train  became  crowded  with  tourists, 
knickerbockered  men  with  knapsacks,  and 
jaunty  feathers  in  their  soft  hats,  boys  carrying 
ski,  women  with  Alpine  cloaks  and  iron-pointed 
sticks. 

Marie  was  childishly  happy.  It  was  the  first 
real  vacation  of  her  life,  and  more  than  that 
she  was  going  to  Semmering,  in  the  very  shadow 
of  the  Raxalpe,  the  beloved  mountain  of  the 
Viennese. 

Marie  had  seen  the  Rax  all  her  life,  as  it 
towered  thirty  miles  or  so  away  above  the  plain. 
On  peaceful  Sundays,  having  climbed  the  cog 
railroad,  she  had  seen  its  white  head  turn  rosy 
in  the  setting  sun,  and  once  when  a  German 
tourist  from  Munich  had  handed  her  his  field- 
glass  she  had  even  made  out  some  of  the  crosses 
that  showed  where  travelers  had  met  their 
deaths.  Now  she  would  be  very  close.  If  the 
weather  were  good,  she  might  even  say  a  prayer 
in  the  chapel  on  its  crest  for  the  souls  of  those 
who  had  died.  It  was  of  a  marvel,  truly;  so 
far  may  one  go  when  one  has  money  and  leisure. 

The  small  single-trucked  railway  carriages 
bumped  and  rattled  up  the  mountain  sides,  al- 
ways rising,  always  winding.  There  were  mo- 
ments when  the  track  held  to  the  cliffs  only 

135 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

by  gigantic  fingers  of  steel,  while  far  below  were 
peaceful  valleys  and  pink-and-blue  houses  and 
churches  with  gilded  spires.  There  were  vistas 
of  snow-peak  and  avalanche  shed,  and  always 
there  were  tunnels.  Marie,  so  wise  in  sor^e  things, 
was  a  child  in  others ;  she  slid  close  to  Stewart  in 
the  darkness  and  touched  him  for  comfort. 

"It  is  so  dark,"  she  apologized,  "and  it 
frightens  me,  the  mountain  heart.  In  your 
America,  have  you  so  great  mountains?" 

Stewart  patted  her  hand,  a  patronizing  touch 
that  sent  her  blood  racing. 

"Much  larger,"  he  said  magnificently.  "I 
have  n't  seen  a  hill  in  Europe  I  'd  exchange  for 
the  Rockies.  And  when  we  cross  the  moun- 
tains there  we  use  railway  coaches.  These  toy 
railroads  are  a  joke.  At  home  we'd  use  'em  as 
street-cars." 

"Really!   I  should  like  to  see  America." 

"So  should  I." 

The  conversation  was  taking  a  dangerous 
trend.  Mention  of  America  was  apt  to  put  the 
Herr  Doktor  in  a  bad  humor  or  to  depress 
him,  which  was  even  worse.  Marie,  her  hand 
still  on  his  arm  and  not  repulsed,  became  silent. 

At  a  small  way  station  the  three  Germans  in 
the  compartment  left  the  train.  Stewart,  low- 
ering a  window,  bought  from  a  boy  on  the 
platform  beer  and  sausages  and  a  bag  of  pretzels. 

136 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

As  the  train  resumed  its  clanking  progress  tney 
ate  luncheon,  drinking  the  beer  from  the  bottles 
and  slicing  the  sausage  with  a  penknife.  It 
was  a  joyous  trip,  a  red-letter  day  in  the  girl's 
rather  sordid  if  not  uneventful  life.  The  Herr 
Doktor  was  pleased  with  her.  He  liked  her 
hat,  and  when  she  flushed  with  pleasure  de- 
manded proof  that  she  was  not  rouged.  Proof 
was  forthcoming.  She  rubbed  her  cheeks 
vigorously  with  a  handkerchief  and  produced 
in  triumph  its  unreddened  purity. 

"Thou  suspicious  one!"  she  pouted.  "I 
must  take  off  the  skin  to  assure  thee !  When  the 
Herr  Doktor  says  no  rouge,  I  use  none." 

:' You 're  a  good  child."  He  stooped  over  and 
kissed  one  scarlet  cheek  and  then  being  very 
comfortable  and  the  beer  having  made  him 
drowsy,  he  put  his  Lead  in  her  lap  and  slept. 

When  he  awakened  they  were  still  higher. 
The  snow-peak  towered  above  and  the  valleys 
were  dizzying!  Semmering  was  getting  near. 
They  were  frequently  in  darkness;  a'nd  between 
the  tunnels  were  long  lines  of  granite  avalanche 
sheds.  The  little  passage  of  the  car  was  full  of 
tourists  looking  down. 

"We  are  very  close,  I  am  sure,"  an  Ameri- 
can girl  was  saying  just  outside  the  doorway. 
"See,  is  n't  that  the  Kurhaus?  There,  it  is  lost 
again." 

137 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  tourists  in  the  passage  were  Americans 
and  the  girl  who  had  spoken  was  young  and 
attractive.  Stewart  noticed  them  for  the  first 
time  and  moved  to  a  more  decorous  distance 
from  Marie. 

Marie  Jedlicka  took  her  cue  and  lapsed  into 
silence,  but  her  thoughts  were  busy.  Perhaps 
this  girl  was  going  to  Semmering  also  and  the 
Herr  Doktor  would  meet  her.  But  that  was 
foolish!  There  were  other  resorts  besides  Sem- 
mering, and  in  the  little  villa  to  which  they  went 
there  would  be  no  Americans.  It  was  childish 
to  worry  about  a  girl  whose  back  and  profile 
only  she  had  seen.  Also  profiles  were  deceptive; 
there  was  the  matter  of  the  ears.  Marie's  ears 
were  small  and  set  close  to  her  head.  If  the 
American  Fraulein's  ears  stuck  out  or  her  face 
were  only  short  and  wide!  But  no.  The  Ameri- 
can Fraulein  turned  and  glanced  once  swiftly 
into  the  compartment.  She  was  quite  lovely. 

Stewart  thought  so,  too.  He  got  up  with  a 
great  show  of  stretching  and  yawning  and 
lounged  into  the  passage.  He  did  not  speak  to 
the  girl;  Marie  noted  that  with  some  comfort. 
But  shortly  after  she  saw  him  conversing  easily 
with  a  male  member  of  the  party.  Her  heart 
sank  again.  Life  was  moving  very  fast  for  Marie 
Jedlicka  that  afternoon  on  the  train. 

Stewart  was  duly  presented  to  the  party 
138 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

of  Americans  and  offered  his  own  cards,  bowing 
from  the  waist  and  clicking  his  heels  together, 
a  German  custom  he  had  picked  up.  The  girl 
was  impressed;  Marie  saw  that.  When  they 
drew  into  the  station  at  Semmering  Stewart 
helped  the  American  party  off  first  and  then 
came  back  for  Marie.  Less  keen  eyes  than  the 
little  Austrian's  would  have  seen  his  nervous 
anxiety  to  escape  attention,  once  they  were  out 
of  the  train  and  moving  towTard  the  gate  of  the 
station.  He  stopped  to  light  a  cigarette,  he 
put  down  the  hand-luggage  and  picked  it  up 
again,  as  though  it  weighed  heavily,  whereas 
it  was  both  small  and  light.  He  loitered  through 
the  gate  and  paused  to  exchange  a  word  with  the 
gateman. 

The  result  was,  of  course,  that  the  Americans 
were  in  a  sleigh  and  well  up  the  mountainside 
before  Stewart  and  Marie  were  seated  side  by 
side  in  a  straw-lined  sledge,  their  luggage  about 
them,  a  robe  over  their  knees,  and  a  noisy  driver 
high  above  them  on  the  driving-seat.  Stewart 
spoke  to  her  then,  the  first  time  for  half  an  hour. 

Marie  found  some  comfort.  The  villas  at 
Semmering  were  scattered  wide  over  the  moun- 
tain breast,  set  in  dense  clumps  of  evergreens, 
hidden  from  the  roads  and  from  each  other  by 
trees  and  shrubbery  separated  by  valleys.  One 
jnight  live  in  one  part  of  Semmering  for  a  month 

139 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  never  suspect  the  existence  of  other  par!:*, 
or  wander  over  steep  roads  and  paths  for  days 
and  never  pass  twice  over  the  same  one.  The 
Herr  Doktor  might  not  see  the  American  girl 
again  —  and  if  he  did !  Did  he  not  see  American 
girls  wherever  he  went? 

The  sleigh  climbed  on.  It  seemed  they  would! 
never  stop  climbing.  Below  in  the  valley  twi- 
light already  reigned,  a  twilight  of  blue  shadows, 
of  cows  with  bells  wandering  home  over  frosty 
fields,  of  houses  with  dark  faces  that  opened  an 
eye  of  lamplight  as  one  looked. 

Across  the  valley  and  far  above  —  Marie 
pointed  without  words.  Her  small  heart  was 
very  full.  Greater  than  she  had  ever  dreamed 
it,  steeper,  more  beautiful,  more  deadly,  and 
crowned  with  its  sunset  hue  of  rose  was  the 
Rax.  Even  Stewart  lost  his  look  of  irritation 
as  he  gazed  with  her.  He  reached  over  and  cov- 
ered both  her  hands  with  his  large  one  under 
the  robe. 

The  sleigh  climbed  steadily.  Marie  Jedlicka, 
in  a  sort  of  ecstasy,  leaned  back  and  watched 
the  mountain;  its  crown  faded  from  rose  to 
gold,  from  gold  to  purple  with  a  thread  of  black. 
There  was  a  shadow  on  the  side  that  looked 
like  a  cross.  Marie  stopped  the  sleigh  at  a  way- 
side shrine,  and  getting  out  knelt  to  say  a 
prayer  for  the  travelers  who  had  died  on  the  Rax. 

140 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

They  had  taken  a  room  at  a  small  villa  where 
board  was  cheap,  and  where  the  guests  were 
usually  Germans  of  the  thriftier  sort  from 
Bavaria.  Both  the  season  and  the  modest 
character  of  the  establishment  promised  them 
quiet  and  seclusion. 

To  Marie  the  house  seemed  the  epitome  of 
elegance,  even  luxury.  It  clung  to  a  steep  hill- 
side. Their  room,  on  the  third  floor,  looked 
out  from  the  back  of  the  building  over  the  val- 
ley, which  fell  away  almost  sheer  from  beneath 
their  windows.  A  tiny  balcony  outside,  with 
access  to  it  by  a  door  from  the  bedroom,  looked 
far  down  on  the  tops  of  tall  pines.  It  made 
Marie  dizzy. 

She  was  cheerful  again  and  busy.  The 
American  trunk  was  to  be  unpacked  and  the 
Herr  Doktor's  things  put  away,  his  shoes  in 
rows,  as  he  liked  them,  and  his  shaving  materials 
laid  out  on  the  washstand.  Then  there  was  a 
new  dress  to  put  on,  that  she  might  do  him  credit 
at  supper. 

Stewart's  bad  humor  had  returned.  He  com- 
plained of  the  room  and  the  draft  under  the 
balcony  door;  the  light  was  wrong  for  shaving. 
But  the  truth  came  out  at  last  and  found  Marie 
not  unprepared. 

"The  fact  is,"  he  said,  "I  'm  not  going  to  eat 
with  you  to-night,  dear.  I  'm  going  to  the  hotel." 

141 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"With  the  Americans?" 

"  Yes.  I  know  a  chap  who  went  to  college  with 
the  brother  —  with  the  young  man  you  saw." 

Marie  glanced  down  at  her  gala  toilet.  Then 
she  began  slowly  to  take  off  the  dress,  reaching 
behind  her  for  a  hook  he  had  just  fastened  and 
fighting  back  tears  as  she  struggled  with  it. 

"Now,  remember,  Marie,  I  will  have  no  sulk- 
ing." 

"I  am  not  sulking." 

"Why  should  you  change  your  clothes?" 

"Because  the  dress  was  for  you.  If  you  are 
not  here  I  do  not  wish  to  wear  it." 

Stewart  went  out  in  a  bad  humor,  which  left 
him  before  he  had  walked  for  five  minutes  in 
the  clear  mountain  air.  At  the  hotel  he  found 
the  party  waiting  for  him,  the  women  in  evening 
gowns.  The  girl,  whose  name  was  Anita,  was 
bewitching  in  pale  green. 

That  was  a  memorable  night  for  Walter 
Stewart,  with  his  own  kind  once  more  —  a  per- 
fect dinner,  brisk  and  clever  conversation,  en- 
livened by  a  bit  of  sweet  champagne,  an  hour 
or  two  on  the  terrace  afterward  with  the  women 
in  furs,  and  stars  making  a  jeweled  crown  for 
the  Rax. 

He  entirely  forgot  Marie  until  he  returned  to 
the  villa  and  opening  the  door  of  the  room  found 
her  missing. 

142 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

She  had  not  gone  far.  At  the  sound  of  his 
steps  she  moved  on  the  balcony  and  came  in 
slowly.  She  was  pale  and  pinched  with  cold,  but 
she  was  wise  with  the  wisdom  of  her  kind.  She 
smiled. 

"Didst  thou  have  a  fine  evening?" 

"Wonderful!" 

"I  am  sorry  if  I  was  unpleasant.  I  was  tired, 
now  I  am  rested." 

"Good,  little  Marie!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

card  in  the  American  Doctors'  Club 
brought  a  response  finally.  It  was  just 
in  time.  Harmony's  funds  were  low,  and  the 
Frau  Professor  Bergmeister  had  gone  to  St. 
Moritz  for  the  winter.  She  regretted  the  English 
lessons,  but  there  were  always  English  at  St. 
Moritz  and  it  cost  nothing  to  talk  with  them. 
Before  she  left  she  made  Harmony  a  present. 
"For  Christmas,"  she  explained.  It  was  a 
glass  pin-tray,  decorated  beneath  with  labels 
from  the  Herr  Professor's  cigars  and  in  the 
center  a  picture  of  the  Emperor. 

The  response  came  in  this  wise.  Harmony 
struggling  home  against  an  east  wind  and 
holding  the  pin-tray  and  her  violin  case,  opened 
the  old  garden  gate  by  the  simple  expedient  of 
leaning  against  it.  It  flew  back  violently,  al- 
most overthrowing  a  stout  woman  in  process 
of  egress  down  the  walk.  The  stout  woman  was 
Mrs.  Boyer,  clad  as  usual  in  the  best  broadcloth 
and  wearing  her  old  sable  cape,  made  over  ac- 
cording to  her  oldest  daughter's  ideas  into  a 
staid  stole  and  muff.  The  muff  lay  on  the  path 
aow  and  Mrs.  Boyer  was  gasping  for  breath. 

144 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I'm  so  sorry!"  Harmony  exclaimed.  "It 
was  stupid  of  me;  but  the  wind  -  Is  this  your 
muff?" 

Mrs.  Boyer  took  the  muff  coldly.  From  its 
depths  she  proceeded  to  extract  a  handkerchief 
and  with  the  handkerchief  she  brushed  down 
the  broadcloth.  Harmony  stood  apologeti- 
cally by.  It  is  explanatory  of  Mrs.  Boyer 's  face, 
attitude,  and  costume  that  the  girl  addressed 
her  in  English. 

"I  backed  in,"  she  explained.  "So  few  people 
come,  and  no  Americans." 

Mrs.  Boyer,  having  finished  her  brushing 
and  responded  to  this  humble  apology  in  her 
own  tongue,  condescended  to  look  at  Harmony. 

"It  really  is  no  matter,"  she  said,  still  coolly 
but  with  indications  of  thawing.  "I  am  only 
glad  it  did  not  strike  my  nose.  I  dare  say  it 
would  have,  but  I  was  looking  up  to  see  if  it 
were  going  to  snow."  Here  she  saw  the  violin 
case  and  became  almost  affable. 

"There  was  a  card  in  the  Doctors'  Club,  and 
I  called  —  "  She  hesitated. 

"I  am  Miss  Wells.  The  card  is  mine." 

"One  of  the  women  here  has  a  small  boy  who 
wishes  to  take  violin  lessons  and  I  offered  to 
come.  The  mother  is  very  busy." 

"I  see.  Will  you  come  in?  I  can  make  you  a 
cup  of  tea  and  we  can  talk  about  it." 

145 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Mrs.  Boyer  was  very  willing,  although  she 
had  doubts  about  the  tea:  She  had  had  no  good 
tea  since  she  had  left  England,  and  was  inclined 
to  suspect  all  of  it. 

They  went  in  together,  Harmony  chatting 
gayly  as  she  ran  ahead,  explaining  this  bit  of 
the  old  staircase,  that  walled-up  door,  here  an 
ancient  bit  of  furniture  not  considered  worthy 
of  salvage,  there  a  closed  and  locked  room, 
home  of  ghosts  and  legends.  To  Harmony  this 
elderly  woman,  climbing  slowly  behind  her,  was 
a  bit  of  home.  There  had  been  many  such  in 
her  life;  women  no  longer  young,  friends  of  her 
mother's  who  were  friends  of  hers;  women  to 
whom  she  had  been  wont  to  pay  the  courtesy 
of  a  potted  hyacinth  at  Easter  or  a  wreath  at 
Christmas  or  a  bit  of  custard  during  an  illness. 
She  had  missed  them  all  cruelly,  as  she  had 
missed  many  things  —  her  mother,  her  church, 
her  small  gayeties.  She  had  thought  at  first 
that  Frau  Professor  Bergmeister  might  allay 
her  longing  for  these  comfortable,  middle-aged, 
placid-eyed  friends  of  hers.  But  the  Frau  Pro- 
fessor Bergmeister  had  proved  to  be  a  frivolous 
and  garrulous  old  woman,  who  substituted  ease 
for  comfort,  and  who  burned  a  candle  on  the 
name-day  of  her  first  husband  while  her  second 
was  safely  out  of  the  house. 

So  it  was  with  something  of  excitement  that 
146 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony  led  the  way  up  the  stairs  and  into 
the  salon  of  Maria  Theresa. 

Peter  was  there.  He  was  sitting  with  his  back 
to  the  door,  busily  engaged  in  polishing  the 
horns  of  the  deer.  Whatever  scruples  Harmony 
had  had  about  the  horns,  Peter  had  none  what- 
ever, save  to  get  them  safely  out  of  the  place 
and  to  the  hospital.  So  Peter  was  polishing  the 
horns.  Harmony  had  not  expected  to  find  him 
home,  and  paused,  rather  startled. 

"Oh,  I  did  n't  know  you  were  home." 

Peter  spoke  without  turning. 

"Try  to  bear  up  under  it,"  he  said.  "I'm 
home  and  hungry,  sweetheart!" 

"Peter,  please!" 

Peter  turned  at  that  and  rose  instantly.  It 
was  rather  dark  in  the  salon  and  he  did  not 
immediately  recognize  Mrs.  Boyer.  But  that 
keen-eyed  lady  had  known  him  before  he  turned, 
had  taken  in  the  domesticity  of  the  scene  and 
Peter's  part  in  it,  and  had  drawn  the  swift 
conclusion  of  the  pure  of  heart. 

"I'll  come  again,"  she  said  hurriedly.    "I- 
I  must  really  get  home.  Dr.  Boyer  will  be  there, 
and  wondering  — 

"Mrs.  Boyer!"   Peter  knew  her. 

"Oh,  Dr.  Byrne,  isn't  it?  How  unexpected 
to  find  you  here!" 

"I  live  here." 

147 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"So  I  surmised." 

"Three  of  us,"  said  Peter.  "You  know  Anna 
Gates,  don't  you?" 

"I'm  afraid  not.   Really  I  - 

Peter  was  determined  to  explain.  His  very 
eagerness  was  almost  damning. 

"She  and  Miss  Wells  are  keeping  house  here 
and  have  kindly  taken  me  in  as  a  boarder. 
Please  sit  down." 

Harmony  found  nothing  strange  in  the  situa- 
tion and  was  frankly  puzzled  at  Peter.  The  fact 
that  there  wTas  anything  unusual  in  two  single 
women  and  one  unmarried  man,  unrelated  and 
comparative  strangers,  setting  up  housekeeping 
together  had  never  occurred  to  her.  Many  a 
single  woman  whom  she  knew  at  home  took  a 
gentleman  into  the  house  as  a  roomer,  and  there- 
after referred  to  him  as  "he"  and  spent  hours 
airing  the  curtains  of  smoke  and  even,  as  "he" 
became  a  member  of  the  family,  in  sewing  on  his 
buttons.  There  was  nothing  indecorous  about 
such  an  arrangement;  merely  a  concession  to 
economic  pressure. 

She  made  tea,  taking  off  her  jacket  and  gloves 
to  do  it,  but  bustling  about  cheerfully,  with  her 
hat  rather  awry  and  her  cheeks  flushed  with 
excitement  and  hope.  Just  now,  when  the  Frau 
Professor  had  gone,  the  prospect  of  a  music 
raipil  meant  everything.  An  American  child, 

148 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

too!  Fond  as  Harmony  was  of  children,  the 
sedate  and  dignified  youngsters  who  walked  the 
parks  daily  with  a  governess,  or  sat  with  folded 
imnds  and  fixed  eyes  through  hours  of  heavy 
music  at  the  opera,  rather  daunted  her.  They 
were  never  alone,  those  Austrian  children  - 
always  under  surveillance,  always  restrained, 
always  prepared  to  kiss  the  hand  of  whatever 
relative  might  be  near  and  to  take  themselves 
off  to  anywhere  so  it  were  somewhere  else. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  are  going  to  talk  to  me 
about  an  American  child,"  said  Harmony, 
bringing  in  the  tea. 

But  Mrs.  Boyer  was  not  so  sure  she  was  going 
to  talk  about  the  American  child.  She  was  not 
sure  of  anything,  except  that  the  household 
looked  most  irregular,  and  that  Peter  Byrne 
was  trying  to  cover  a  difficult  situation  with 
much  conversation.  He  was  almost  glib,  was 
Peter.  The  tea  was  good;  that  was  one  thing. 

She  sat  back  with  her  muff  on  her  knee,  hav- 
ing refused  the  concession  of  putting  it  on  a  chair 
as  savoring  too  much  of  acceptance  if  not  ap- 
proval, and  sipped  her  tea  out  of  a  spoon  as 
becomes  a  tea-lover.  Peter,  who  loathed  tea, 
lounged  about  the  room,  clearly  in  the  way, 
but  fearful  to  leave  Harmony  alone  with  her. 
She  was  quite  likely,  at  the  first  opportunity, 
to  read  her  a  lesson  on  the  conventions,  if 

149 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

nothing  worse;  to  upset  the  delicate  balance  of 
the  little  household  he  was  guarding.  So  he 
stayed,  praying  for  Anna  to  come  and  bear 
out  his  story,  while  Harmony  toyed  with  her 
spoon  and  waited  for  some  mention  of  the 
lessons.  None  came.  Mrs.  Boyer,  having 
finished  her  tea,  rose  and  put  down  her  cup. 

"That  was  very  refreshing,"  she  said.  "Where 
shall  I  find  the  street-car?  I  walked  out,  but  it 
is  late." 

"I'll  take  you  to  the  car."  Peter  picked  up 
his  old  hat. 

"Thank  you.  I  am  always  lost  in  this 
wretched  town.  I  give  the  conductors  double 
tips  to  put  me  down  where  I  want  to  go;  but 
how  can  they  when  it  is  the  wrong  car?"  She 
bowed  to  Harmony  without  shaking  hands. 
" Thank  you  for  the  tea.  It  was  really  good. 
Where  do  you  get  it?" 

"There  is  a  tea-shop  a  door  or  two  from  the 
Grand  Hotel." 

"I  must  remember  that.  Thank  you  again. 
Good-bye." 

Not  a  word  about  the  lessons  or  the  Ameri- 
can child! 

"You  said  something  about  my  card  in  the 
Doctors'  Club  - 

Something  wistful  in  the  girl's  eyes  caught 
and  held  Mrs.  Boyer. 

150 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

After  all  she  was  the  mother  of  daughters. 
She  held  out  her  hand  and  her  voice  was  not  so 
hard. 

"That  will  have  to  wait  until  another  time. 
I  have  made  a  social  visit  and  we'll  not  spoil  it 
with  business." 

"But- 

"  I  really  think  the  boy's  mother  must  attend 
to  that  herself.  But  I  shall  tell  her  where  to 
find  you,  and"  — here  she  glanced  at  Peter  — 
"all  about  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Harmony  gratefully. 

Peter  had  no  finesse.  He  escorted  Mrs. 
Boyer  across  the  yard  and  through  the  gate 
with  hardly  a  word.  With  the  gate  closed  be- 
hind them  he  turned  and  faced  her :  — 

"You  are  going  away  with  a  wrong  impression, 
Mrs.  Boyer." 

Mrs.  Boyer  had  been  thinking  hard  as  she 
crossed  the  yard.  The  result  was  a  resolution 
to  give  Peter  a  piece  of  her  mind.  She  drew  her 
ample  proportions  into  a  dignity  that  was 
almost  majesty. 

"Yes?" 

"I  —  I  can  understand  why  you  think  as 
you  do.  It  is  quite  without  foundation." 

"I  am  glad  of  that."  There  was  no  conviction 
in  her  voice. 

"Of  course,"  went  on  Peter,' humbling  him- 
151 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

self  for  Harmony's  sake,  "I  suppose  it  has 
been  rather  unconventional,  but  Dr.  Gates  is 
not  a  young  woman  by  any  means,  and  she 
takes  very  good  care  of  Miss  Wells.  There  were 
reasons  why  this  seemed  the  best  thing  to  do. 
Miss  Wells  was  alone  and  — " 

"There  is  a  Dr.  Gatee?" 

"Of  course.  If  you  will  come  back  and  wait 
she'll  be  along  very  soon." 

Mrs.  Boyer  was  convinced  and  defrauded  in 
one  breath;  convinced  that  there  might  be  a 
Dr.  Gates,  but  equally  convinced  that  the  situa- 
tion was  anomalous  and  certainly  suspicious; 
defrauded  in  that  she  had  lost  the  anticipated 
pleasure  of  giving  Peter  a  piece  of  her  mind. 
She  walked  along  beside  him  without  speaking 
until  they  reached  the  street-car  line.  Then  she 
turned. 

:'You  called  her  —  you  spoke  to  her  very 
affectionately,  young  man,"  she  accused  him. 

Peter  smiled.  The  car  was  close.  Some  imp  of 
recklessness,  some  perversion  of  humor  seized 
him. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Boyer,"  he  said,  "that  was 
in  jest  purely.  Besides,  I  did  not  know  that  you 
were  there!" 

Mrs.  Boyer  was  a  literal  person  without 
humor.  It  was  outraged  American  woman- 
hood incarnate  that  got  into  the  street-car  and 

152 


settled  its  broadcloth  of  the  best  quality  indig- 
nantly on  the  cane  seat.  It  was  outraged  Ameri- 
can womanhood  that  flung  open  the  door  of 
Marie  Jedlicka's  flat,  and  stalking  into  Marie 
Jedlicka's  sitting  room  confronted  her  husband 
as  he  read  a  month-old  newspaper  from  home. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  woman  doctor 
named  Gates?"  she  demanded. 

Boyer  was  not  unaccustomed  to  such  verbal 
attacks.  He  had  learned  to  meet  domestic 
broadsides  with  a  shield  of  impenetrable  good 
humor,  or  at  the  most  with  a  return  fire  of  mild 
sarcasm. 

"I  never  hear  of  a  woman  doctor  if  it  can  be 
avoided." 

"Dr.  Gates  —  Anna  Gates?" 

"There  are  a  number  here.  I  meet  them  in 
the  hospital,  but  I  don't  know  their  names." 

"Where  does  Peter  Byrne  live?" 

"In  a  pension,  I  believe,  my  dear.  Are  we 
going  to  have  anything  to  eat  or  do  we  sup  of 
Peter  Byrne?" 

Mrs.  Boyer  made  no  immediate  reply.  She 
repaired  to  the  bedroom  of  Marie  Jedlicka,  and 
placed  her  hat,  coat  and  furs  on  one  of  the  beds 
with  the  crocheted  coverlets.  It  is  a  curious 
thing  about  rooms.  There  was  no  change  in 
the  bedroom  apparent  to  the  eye,  save  that  for 
Marie's  tiny  slippers  at  the  foot  of  the  wardrobe 

153 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

there  were  Mrs.  Boyer's  substantial  house  shoes. 
But  in  some  indefinable  way  the  room  had 
changed.  About  it  hung  an  atmosphere  of  solid 
respectability,  of  impeccable  purity  that  soothed 
Mrs.  Boyer's  ruffled  virtue  into  peace.  Is  it  any 
wonder  that  there  is  a  theory  to  the  effect  that 
things  take  on  the  essential  qualities  of  people 
who  use  them,  and  that  we  are  haunted  by 
things,  not  people?  That  when  grandfather's 
wraith  is  seen  in  his  old  armchair  it  is  the 
chair  that  produces  it,  while  grandfather  him- 
self serenely  haunts  the  shades  of  some  vast 
wilderness  of  departed  spirits? 

Not  that  Mrs.  Boyer  troubled  herself  about 
such  things.  She  was  exceedingly  orthodox,  even 
in  the  matter  of  a  hereafter,  where  the  most 
orthodox  are  apt  to  stretch  a  point,  finding  no 
attraction  whatever  in  the  thing  they  are  asked 
to  believe.  Mrs.  Boyer,  who  would  have  re- 
garded it  as  heterodox  to  substitute  any  other 
instrument  for  the  harp  of  her  expectation,  tied 
on  her  gingham  apron  before  Marie  Jedlicka's 
mirror,  and  thought  of  Harmony  and  of  the 
girls  at  home. 

She  told  her  husband  over  the  supper-table 
and  found  him  less  shocked  than  she  had  ex- 
pected. 

"It 's  not  your  affair  or  mine,"  he  said.  "It 's 
Byrne's  business." 

154 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Think  of  the  girl!" 

"Even  if  you  are  right  it 's  rather  late,  is  n't 
it?" 

:'You  could  tell  him  what  you  think  of  him." 

Dr.  Boyer  sighed  over  a  cup  of  very  excellent 
coffee.  Much  living  with  a  representative  male 
had  never  taught  his  wife  the  reserves  among 
members  of  the  sex  masculine. 

"I  might,  but  I  don't  intend  to,"  he  said. 
"And  if  you  listen  to  me  you'll  keep  the  thing 
to  yourself." 

"I'll  take  precious  good  care  that  the  girl 
gets  no  pupils,"  snapped  Mrs.  Boyer.  And  she 
did  with  great  thoroughness. 

We  trace  a  life  by  its  scars.  Destiny,  march- 
ing on  by  a  thousand  painful  steps,  had  left 
its  usual  mark,  a  footprint  on  a  naked  soul. 
The  soul  was  Harmony's;  the  foot  —  was  it 
not  encased  at  that  moment  in  Mrs.  Boyer's 
comfortable  house  shoes? 

Anna  was  very  late  that  night.  Peter,  having 
put  Mrs.  Boyer  on  her  car,  went  back  quickly, 
He  had  come  out  without  his  overcoat,  and  with 
the  sunset  a  bitter  wind  had  risen,  but  he  was 
too  indignant  to  be  cold.  He  ran  up  the  stair- 
case, hearing  on  all  sides  the  creaking  and  bang- 
ing with  which  the  old  house  resented  a  gale, 
and  burst  into  the  salon  of  Maria  Theresa. 

155 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony  was  sitting  sidewise  in  a  chair  by 
the  tea-table  with  her  face  hidden  against  its 
worn  red  velvet.  She  did  not  look  up  when 
he  entered.  Peter  went  over  and  put  a  hand  on 
her  shoulder.  She  quivered  under  it  and  he  took 
it  away. 

"Crying?" 

"A  little,"  very  smothered.  "Just  dis  — 
disappointment.  Don't  mind  me,  Peter." 

:<You  mean  about  the  pupil?" 

Harmony  sat  up  and  looked  at  him.  She 
still  wore  her  hat,  now  more  than  ever  askew, 
and  some  of  the  dye  from  the  velvet  had  stained 
her  cheek.  She  looked  rather  hectic,  very  lovely. 

"Why  did  she  change  so  when  she  saw  you?" 

Peter  hesitated.  Afterward  he  thought  of  a 
dozen  things  he  might  have  said,  safe  things. 
Not  one  came  to  him. 

"She  —  she  is  an  evil-thinking  old  woman, 
Harry,"  he  said  gravely. 

"She  did  not  approve  of  the  way  we  are  living 
here,  is  that  it?" 

"Yes." 

"But  Anna?" 

"She  did  not  believe  there  was  an  Anna. 
Not  that  it  matters,"  he  added  hastily.  "I'll 
make  Anna  go  to  her  and  explain.  It 's  her 
infernal  jumping  to  a  conclusion  that  makes  me 
crazy." 

156 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"She  will  talk,  Peter.    I  am  frightened." 

"  I  '11  take  Anna  to-night  and  we  '11  go  to 
Boyer's.  I  '11  make  that  woman  get  down  on 
her  knees  to  you.  I'll  - 

'You'll  make  bad  very  much  worse,"  said 
Harmony  dejectedly.  "When  a  thing  has  to 
be  explained  it  does  no  good  to  explain  it." 

The  salon  was  growing  dark.  Peter  was  very 
close  to  her  again.  As  in  the  dusky  kitchen 
only  a  few  days  before,  he  felt  the  compelling 
influence  of  her  nearness.  He  wanted,  as  he 
had  never  wanted  anything  in  his  life  before, 
to  take  her  in  his  arms,  to  hold  her  close  and 
bid  defiance  to  evil  tongues.  He  was  afraid  of 
hin  iself.  To  gain  a  moment  he  put  a  chair 
between  them  and  stood,  strong  hands  gripping 
its  back,  looking  down  at  her. 

" There  is  one  thing  we  could  do." 

"What,  Peter?" 

"We  could  marry.  If  you  cared  for  me  even 
a  little  it  —  it  might  not  be  so  bad  for  you." 

"But  I  am  not  in  love  with  you.  I  care  for 
you,  of  course,  but  —  not  that  way,  Peter. 
And  I  do  not  wish  to  marry." 

"Not  even  if  I  wish  it  very  much?" 

"No." 

"If  you  are  thinking  of  my  future  - 

"I  'm  thinking  for  both  of  us.  And  although 
iust  now  you  think  you  care  a  little  for  me,  you 

157 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

do  not  care  enough,  Peter.  You  are  lonely  and 
I  am  the  only  person  you  see  much,  so  you 
think  you  want  to  marry  me.  You  don't  really. 
You  want  to  help  me." 

Few  motives  are  unmixed.  Poor  Peter,  thus 
accused,  could  not  deny  his  altruism. 

And  in  the  face  of  his  poverty  and  the  little 
he  could  offer,  compared  with  what  she  must 
lose,  he  did  not  urge  what  was  the  compelling 
motive  after  all,  his  need  of  her. 

"It  would  be  a  rotten  match  for  you,"  he 
agreed.  "I  only  thought,  perhaps —  You 
are  right,  of  course;  you  ought  not  to  marry." 

"And  what  about  you?" 

"I  ought  not,  of  course." 

Harmony  rose,  smiling  a  little. 

"Then  that's  settled.  And  for  goodness* 
sake,  Peter,  stop  proposing  to  me  every  time 
things  go  wrong."  Her  voice  changed,  grew 
grave  and  older,  much  older  than  Peter's. 
"  We  must  not  marry,  either  of  us,  Peter.  Anna 
is  right.  There  might  be  an  excuse  if  we  were 
very  much  in  love:  but  we  are  not.  And  lone- 
liness is  not  a  reason." 

"I  am  very  lonely,"  said  Peter  wistfully. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

PETER  took  the  polished  horns  to  the  hos- 
pital the  next  morning  and  approached 
Jimmy  with  his  hands  behind  him  and  an  at- 
mosphere of  mystery  that  enshrouded  him  like  a 
cloak.  Jimmy,  having  had  a  good  night  and 
having  taken  the  morning's  medicine  without 
argument,  had  been  allowed  up  in  a  roller 
chair.  It  struck  Peter  with  a  pang  that  the  boy 
looked  more  frail  day  by  day,  more  transparent. 

"I  have  brought  you,"  said  Peter  gravely, 
"the  cod-liver  oil." 

"I've  had  it!" 

"Then  guess." 

"Dad's  letter?" 

"You  've  just  had  one.    Don't  be  a  piggy." 

"Animal,  vegetable,  or  mineral?" 

"Vegetable,"   said  Peter  shamelessly. 

"Soft  or  hard!" 

"Soft." 

This  was  plainly  a  disappointment.  A  pair 
of  horns  might  be  vegetable;  they  could  hardly 
be  soft. 

"A  kitten?" 

"A  kitten  is  not  vegetable    "Hmes." 
159 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I  know.  A  bowl  of  gelatin  from  Harry. 'v 
For  by  this  time  Harmony  was  his  very  good 
friend,  admitted  to  the  Jimmy  club,  which  con- 
sisted of  Nurse  Elisabet,  the  Dozent  with  the 
red  beard,  Anna  and  Peter,  and  of  course  the 
sentry,  who  did  not  know  that  he  belonged. 

"Gelatin,  to  be  sure,"  replied  Peter,  and  pro- 
duced the  horns. 

It  was  a  joyous  moment  in  the  long  low  ward, 
with  its  triple  row  of  beds,  its  barred  windows,  its 
clean,  uneven  old  floor.  As  if  to  add  a  touch  of 
completeness  the  sentry  outside,  peering  in, 
saw  the  wheeled  chair  with  its  occupant,  and 
celebrated  this  advance  along  the  road  to  re- 
covery by  placing  on  the  window-ledge  a  wooden 
replica  of  himself,  bayonet  and  all,  carved  from 
a  bit  of  cigar  box. 

"Everybody  is  very  nice  to  me,"  said  Jimmy 
contentedly.  "When  my  father  comes  back  I 
shall  tell  him.  He  is  very  fond  of  people  who 
are  kind  to  me.  There  was  a  woman  on  the 
ship  —  What  is  bulging  your  pocket,  Peter?" 

"My  handkerchief." 

"That  is  not  where  you  mostly  carry  your 
handkerchief." 

Peter  was  injured.  He  scowled  ferociously 
at  being  doubted  and  stood  up  before  the 
wheeled  chair  to  be  searched.  The  ward  watched 
joyously,  while  from  pocket  after  pocket  of 

160 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Peter's  old  gray  suit  came  Jimmy's  salvage  - 
two  nuts,  a  packet  of  figs,  a  postcard  that  rep- 
resented a  stout  colonel  of  hussars  on  his  back 
on  a  frozen  lake,  with  a  private  soldier  waiting 
to  go  through  the  various  salutations  due  his 
rank  before  assisting  him.  A  gala  day,  indeed, 
if  one  could  forget  the  grave  in  the  little  moun- 
tain town  with  only  a  name  on  the  cross  at  its 
head,  and  if  one  did  not  notice  that  the  boy 
was  thinner  than  ever,  that  his  hands  soon 
tired  of  playing  and  lay  in  his  lap,  that  Nurse 
Elisabet,  who  was  much  inured  to  death  and 
lived  her  days  with  tragedy,  caught  him  to  her 
almost  fiercely  as  she  lifted  him  back  from  the 
chair  into  the  smooth  white  bed. 

He  fell  asleep  with  Peter's  arm  under  his 
head  and  the  horns  of  the  deer  beside  him. 
On  the  bedside  stand  stood  the  wooden  sentry, 
keeping  guard.  As  Peter  drew  his  arm  away 
he  became  aware  of  the  Nurse  Elisabet  beckon- 
ing to  him  from  a  door  at  the  end  of  the  ward. 
Peter  left  the  sentinel  on  guard  and  tiptoed 
down  the  room.  Just  outside,  round  a  corner, 
was  the  Dozent's  laboratory,  and  beyond  the 
ciny  closet  where  he  slept,  where  on  a  stand  was 
the  photograph  of  the  lady  he  would  marry  when 
he  had  become  a  professor  and  required  no  one's 
consent. 

The  Dozent  was  waiting  for  Peter.    In  the 
161 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

amiable  conspiracy  which  kept  the  boy  happy 
he  was  arch-plotter.  His  familiarity  with  Aus- 
trian intrigue  had  made  him  invaluable.  He 
it  was  who  had  originated  the  idea  of  making 
Jimmy  responsible  for  the  order  of  the  ward,  so 
that  a  burly  Trager  quarreling  over  his  daily 
tobacco  with  the  nurse  in  charge,  or  brawling 
over  his  soup  with  another  patient,  was  likely 
to  be  hailed  in  a  thin  soprano,  and  to  stand, 
grinning  sheepishly,  while  Jimmy,  in  mixed 
English  and  German,  restored  the  decorum 
of  the  ward.  They  were  a  quarrelsome  lot, 
the  convalescents.  Jimmy  was  so  busy  some 
days  settling  disputes  and  awarding  decisions 
that  he  slept  almost  all  night.  This  was  as  it 
should  be. 

The  Dozent  waited  for  Peter.  His  red  beard 
twitched  and  his  white  coat,  stained  from  the 
laboratory  table,  looked  quite  villainous.  He 
held  out  a  letter. 

"This  has  come  for  the  child,"  he  said  in 
quite  good  English.  He  was  obliged  to  speak 
English.  Day  by  day  he  taught  in  the  clinics 
Americans  who  scorned  his  native  tongue,  and 
who  brought  him  the  money  with  which  some 
day  he  would  marry.  He  liked  the  English 
language;  he  liked  Americans  because  they 
learned  quickly.  He  held  out  an  envelope  with 
a  black  border  and  Peter  took  it. 

162 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"From  Paris!"  he  said.    "Who  in  the  world 
- 1  suppose  I  'd  better  open  it." 

"So   I   thought.     It   appears    a   letter   of  - 
how  you  say  it?   Ah,  yes,  condolence." 

Peter  opened  the  letter  and  read  it.  Then 
without  a  word  he  gave  it  open  to  the  Dozent. 
There  was  silence  in  the  laboratory  while  the 
Dozent  read  it,  silence  except  for  his  canary, 
which  was  chipping  at  a  lump  of  sugar.  Peter's 
face  was  very  sober. 

"So.  A  mother!  You  knew  nothing  of  a 
mother?" 

"Something  from  the  papers  I  found.  She 
left  when  the  boy  was  a  baby  —  went  on  the 
stage,  I  think.  He  has  no  recollection  of  her, 
which  is  a  good  thing.  She  seems  to  have  been 
a  bad  lot." 

"She  comes  to  take  him  away.  That  is  im- 
possible." 

"Of  course  it  is  impossible,"  said  Peter 
savagely.  "She's  not  going  to  see  the  child  if 
I  can  help  it.  She  left  because  —  she  's  the  boy's 
mother,  but  that 's  the  best  you  can  say  of  her. 
This  letter  -  Well,  you  've  read  it." 

"She  is  as  a  stranger  to  him?" 

"Absolutely.    She  will  come  in  mourning - 
look  at  that  black  border  —  and  tell  him  his 
father  is  dead,  and  kill  him.   I  know  the  type." 

The   canary   chipped   at  his   sugar;   the   red 
163 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

beard  of  the  Dozent  twitched,  as  does  the 
beard  of  one  who  plots.  Peter  re-read  the  gush- 
ing letter  in  his  hand  and  thought  fiercely. 

"She  is  on  her  way  here,"  said  the  Dozent. 
"That  is  bad.  Paris  to  Wien  is  two  days  and 
a  night.  She  may  hourly  arrive." 

"We  might  send  him  away  --to  another  hos- 
pital." 

The  Dozent  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Had  I  a  home-  '  he  said,  and  glanced 
through  the  door  to  the  portrait  on  the  stand. 
"It  would  be  possible  to  hide  the  boy,  at  least 
for  a  time.  In  the  interval  the  mother  might 
be  watched,  and  if  she  proved  a  fit  person  the 
boy  could  be  given  to  her.  It  is,  of  course,  an 
affair  of  police." 

This  gave  Peter  pause.  He  had  no  money 
for  fines,  no  time  for  imprisonment,  and  he 
shared  the  common  horror  of  the  great  jail. 
He  read  the  letter  again,  and  tried  to  read  into 
the  lines  Jimmy's  mother,  and  failed.  He 
glanced  into  the  ward.  Still  Jimmy  slept.  A 
burly  convalescent,  with  a  saber  cut  from  temple 
to  ear  and  the  general  appearance  of  an  assassin, 
had  stopped  beside  the  bed  and  was  drawing 
up  the  blanket  round  the  small  shoulders. 

"I  can  give  orders  that  the  woman  be  not 
admitted  to-day,"  said  the  Dozent.  'That 
gives  us  a  few  hours.  She  will  go  to  the  police, 

164 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  to-morrow  she  will  be  admitted.    In  the 
mean  time — " 

"In  the  mean  time,"  Peter  replied,  "I'll  try 
to  think  of  something.  If  I  thought  she  could 
be  warned  and  would  leave  him  here  - 

"She  will  not.  She  will  buy  him  garments 
and  she  will  travel  with  him  through  the  Riviera 
and  to  Nice.  She  says  Nice.  She  wishes  to  be 
there  for  carnival,  and  the  boy  will  die." 

Peter  took  the  letter  and  went  home.  He  rode, 
that  he  might  read  it  again  in  the  bus.  But  no 
scrap  of  comfort  could  he  get  from  it.  It  spoke 
of  the  dead  father  coldly,  and  the  father  had  been 
the  boy's  idol.  No  good  woman  could  have 
been  so  heartless.  It  offered  the  boy  a  seat  in 
one  of  the  least  reputable  of  the  Paris  theaters 
to  hear  his  mother  sing.  And  in  the  envelope, 
overlooked  before,  Peter  found  a  cutting  from 
a  French  newspaper,  a  picture  of  the  music-hall 
type  that  made  him  groan.  It  was  indorsed 
"Mamma." 

Harmony  had  had  a  busy  morning.  First 
she  had  put  her  house  in  order,  working  deftly, 
her  pretty  hair  pinned  up  in  a  towel  —  all  in 
order  but  Peter's  room.  That  was  to  have  a 
special  cleaning  later.  Next,  still  with  her  hair 
tied  up,  she  had  spent  two  hours  with  her  violin, 
standing  very  close  to  the  stove  to  save  fuel 
and  keep  her  fingers  warm.  She  played  well 

165 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

morning:  even  her  own  critical  ears  were  satis, 
fied,  and  the  Portier,  repairing  a  window  lock 
in  an  empty  room  below,  was  entranced.  He 
sat  on  the  window  sill  in  the  biting  cold  and  lis- 
tened. Many  music  students  had  lived  in  the 
apartment  with  the  great  salon;  there  had  been 
much  music  of  one  sort  and  another,  but  none 
like  this. 

"She  tears  my  heart  from  my  bosom,"  mut- 
tered the  Portier,  sighing,  and  almost  swallowed 
a  screw  that  he  held  in  his  teeth. 

After  the  practicing  Harmony  cleaned  Peter's 
room.  She  felt  very  tender  toward  Peter  that 
day.  The  hurt  left  by  Mrs.  Boyer's  visit  had  died 
away,  but  there  remained  a  clear  vision  of 
Peter  standing  behind  the  chair  and  offering 
himself  humbly  in  marriage,  so  that  a  bad  sit- 
uation might  be  made  better.  And  as  with  a 
man  tenderness  expresses  itself  in  the  giving  of 
gifts,  so  with  a  woman  it  means  giving  of  ser- 
vice. Harmony  cleaned  Peter's  room. 

It  was  really  rather  tidy.  Peter's  few  belong- 
ings did  not  spread  to  any  extent  and  years  of 
bachelorhood  had  taught  him  the  rudiments 
of  order.  Harmony  took  the  covers  from  wash- 
stand  and  dressing  table  and  washed  and  ironed 
them.  She  cleaned  Peter's  worn  brushes  and 
brought  a  pincushion  of  her  own  for  his  one 
extra  scarf  pin.  Finally  she  brought  her  OWE 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

steamer  rug  and  folded  it  across  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  There  was  no  stove  in  the  room;  it  had 
been  Harmony's  room  once,  and  she  knew  to 
the  full  how  cold  it  could  be. 

Having  made  all  comfortable  for  the  outer 
man  she  prepared  for  the  inner.  She  was  in  the 
kitchen,  still  with  her  hair  tied  up,  when  Anna 
came  home. 

Anna  was  preoccupied.  Instead  of  her  cheery 
greeting  she  came  somberly  back  to  the  kitchen, 
a  letter  in  her  hand.  History  was  making  fast 
that  day. 

"Hello,  Harry,"  she  said.  "I  'm  going  to  take 
a  bite  and  hurry  off.  Don't  bother,  I'll  attend 
to  myself."  She  stuffed  the  letter  in  her  belt 
and  got  a  plate  from  a  shelf.  "How  pretty  you 
look  with  your  head  tied  up!  If  stupid  Peter 
saw  you  now  he  would  fall  in  love  with  you." 

"Then  I  shall  take  it  off.  Peter  must  be 
saved! " 

Anna  sat  down  at  the  tiny  table  and  drank 
her  tea.  She  felt  rather  better  after  the  tea. 
Harmony,  having  taken  the  towel  off,  was  busy 
over  the  brick  stove.  There  was  nothing  saif* 
for  a  moment.  Then :  - 

"I  am  out  of  patience  with  Peter,"  said  Anna. 

"Why?" 

"Because  he  hasn't  fallen  in  love  with  you. 
Where  are  his  eyes?" 

167 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

-Please,  Anna!" 

"It's  better  as  it  is,  no  doubt,  for  both 
of  you.  But  it's  superhuman  of  Peter.  I 
wonder  — " 

"Yes?" 

"I  think  I  '11  not  tell  you  what  I  wonder." 

And  Harmony,  rather  afraid  of  Anna's  frank 
speech,  did  not  insist. 

As  she  drank  her  tea  and  made  a  pretense  c,": 
eating,  Anna's  thoughts  wandered  from  Pete:: 
"?•  Harmony  to  the  letter  in  her  belt  and  back 
-,^'am  to  Peter  and  Harmony.  For  some  time 
Anna  had  been  suspicious  of  Peter.  From 
her  dozen  years  of  advantage  in  age  and  experi- 
ence she  looked  down  on  Peter's  thirty  years  of 
youth,  and  thought  she  knew  something  that 
Peter  himself  did  not  suspect.  Peter  being 
unintrospective,  Anna  did  his  heart-searching 
for  him.  She  believed  he  was  madly  in  love  with 
Harmony  and  did  not  himself  suspect  it.  As 
she  watched  the  girl  over  her  teacup,  revealing 
herself  in  a  thousand  unposed  gestures  of  youth 
and  grace,  a  thousand  lovelinesses,  something  of 
the  responsibility  she  and  Peter  had  assumed 
came  over  her.  She  sighed  and  felt  for  her  letter. 

"I've  had  rather  bad  news,"  she  said  at  last. 

"From  home?" 

"Yes.  My  father  —  did  you  know  I  have  ?, 
father?" 

168 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

k*  You  had  n't  spoken  of  him." 

"I  never  do.  As  a  father  he  has  n't  amounted 
to  much.  But  he 's  very  ill,  and  —  I  Ve  a  con- 
science." 

Harmony  turned  a  startled  face  to  her. 

r'You  are  not  going  back  to  America?" 

"Oh,  no,  not  now,  anyhow.  If  I  become  hag- 
ridden with  remorse  and  do  go  I  '11  find  some 
one  to  take  my  place.  Don't  worry." 

The  lunch  was  a  silent  meal.  Anna  was 
hurrying  off  as  Peter  came  in,  and  there  was  no 
time  to  discuss  Peter's  new  complication  with 
her.  Harmony  and  Peter  ate  together,  Harmony 
rather  silent.  Anna's  unfortunate  comment 
about  Peter  had  made  her  constrained.  After 
the  meal  Peter,  pipe  in  mouth,  carried  the  dishes 
to  the  kitchen,  and  there  it  was  that  he  gave  her 
the  letter.  What  Peter's  slower  mind  had  been 
a  perceptible  time  in  grasping  Harmony  com- 
prehended at  once  —  and  not  only  the  situa- 
tion, but  its  solution. 

"Don't  let  her  have  him!"  she  said,  putting 
down  the  letter.  "Bring  him  here.  Oh,  Peter, 
how  good  we  must  be  to  him!" 

And  that  after  all  was  how  the  thing  was 
settled.  So  simple,  so  obvious  was  it  that  these 
three  expatriates,  these  waifs  and  estrays, 
banded  together  against  a  common  poverty, 
a  common  loneliness,  should  share  without 

169 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

question  whatever  was  theirs  to  divide.  Pete?- 
and  Anna  gave  cheerfully  of  their  substance, 
Harmony  of  her  labor,  that  a  small  boy  should 
be  saved  a  tragic  knowledge  until  he  was  well 
enough  to  bear  it,  or  until,  if  God  so  willed,  he 
might  learn  it  himself  without  pain. 

The  friendly  sentry  on  duty  again  that  night 
proved  singularly  blind.  Thus  it  happened  that, 
although  the  night  was  clear  when  the  twin 
dials  of  the  Votivkirche  showed  nine  o'clock, 
he  did  not  notice  a  cab  that  halted  across  the 
street  from  the  hospital. 

Still  more  strange  that,  although  Peter  passed 
within  a  dozen  feet  of  him,  carrying  a  wriggling 
and  excited  figure  wrapped  in  a  blanket  and 
insisting  on  uncovering  its  feet,  the  sentry  was 
able  the  next  day  to  say  that  he  had  observed 
such  a  person  carrying  a  bundle,  but  that  it 
was  a  short  stocky  person,  quite  lame,  and  that 
the  bundle  was  undoubtedly  clothing  going  to 
the  laundry. 

Perhaps  —  it  is  just  possible  —  the  sentry 
had  his  suspicions.  It  is  undeniable  that  as 
Jimmy  in  the  cab  on  Peter's  knee,  with  Peter's 
arm  close  about  him,  looked  back  at  the  hos- 
pital, the  sentry  was  going  through  the  manual 
of  arms  very  solemnly  under  the  stars  and  facing 
toward  the  carriage 


CHAPTER  XIV 

F^OR  two  days  at  Semmering  it  rained.  The 
Raxalpe  and  the  Schneeberg  sulked  behind 
walls  of  mist.  From  the  little  balcony  of  the 
Pension  Waldheim  one  looked  out  over  a  sea  of 
cloud,  pierced  here  and  there  by  islands  that 
were  crags  or  by  the  tops  of  sunken  masts  that 
were  evergreen  trees.  The  roads  were  masses 
of  slippery  mud,  up  which  the  horses  steamed 
and  sweated.  The  gray  cloud  fog  hung  over 
everything;  the  barking  of  a  dog  loomed  out  of 
it  near  at  hand  where  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 
Children  cried  and  wild  birds  squawked;  one 
saw  them  not. 

During  the  second  night  a  landslide  occurred 
on  the  side  of  the  mountain  with  a  rumble  like 
the  noise  of  fifty  trains.  In  the  morning,  the 
rain  clouds  lifting  for  a  moment,  Marie  saw  the 
narrow  yellow  line  of  the  slip. 

Everything  was  saturated  with  moisture.  It 
did  no  good  to  close  the  heavy  wooden  shutters 
at  night:  in  the  morning  the  air  of  the  room 
was  sticky  and  clothing  was  moist  to  the  touch. 
Stewart,  confined  to  the  house,  grew  irritable. 

Marie  watched  him  anxiously.  She  knew 
171 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

quite  well  by  what  slender  tenure  she  held  her 
man.  They  had  nothing  in  common,  neither 
speech  nor  thought.  And  the  little  Marie's 
love  for  Stewart,  grown  to  be  a  part  of  her,  was 
largely  maternal.  She  held  him  by  mothering 
him,  by  keeping  him  comfortable,  not  by  a 
great  reciprocal  passion  that  might  in  time  have 
brought  him  co  her  in  chains. 

And  now  he  was  uncomfortable.  He  chafed 
against  the  confinement;  he  resented  the  food, 
the  weather.  Even  Marie's  content  at  her 
unusual  leisure  irked  him.  He  accused  her 
of  purring  like  a  cat  by  the  fire,  and  stamped 
out  more  than  once,  only  to  be  driven  in 
by  the  curious  thunderstorms  of  early  Alpine 
winter. 

On  the  night  of  the  second  day  the  weather 
changed.  Marie,  awakening  early,  stepped  out 
on  to  the  balcony  and  closed  the  door  carefully 
behind  her.  A  new  world  lay  beneath  her,  a 
marvel  of  glittering  branches,  of  white  plain 
far  below;  the  snowy  mane  of  the  Raxalpe  was 
become  a  garment.  And  from  behind  the  villa 
came  the  cheerful  sound  of  sleigh-bells,  of  horses' 
feet  on  crisp  snow,  of  runners  sliding  easily 
along  frozen  roads.  Even  the  barking  of  the 
dog  in  the  next  yard  had  ceased  rumbling  and 
become  sharp  staccato. 

The  balcony  extended  round  the  corner  of 
1.73 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

the  house.  Marie,  eagerly  discovering  her  new 
world,  peered  about,  and  seeing  no  one  near 
ventured  so  far.  The  road  was  in -view,  and 
a  small  girl  on  ski  was  struggling  to  prevent  a 
collision  between  two  plump  feet.  Even  as 
Marie  saw  her  the  inevitable  happened  and  she 
went  headlong  into  a  drift.  A  governess  who 
had  been  kneeling  before  a  shrine  by  the  road 
hastily  crossed  herself  and  ran  to  the  rescue. 

It  was  a  marvelous  morning,  a  day  of  days. 
The  governess  and  the  child  went  on  out  of 
vision.  Marie  stood  still,  looking  at  the  shrine. 
A  drift  had  piled  about  ; ':s  foot,  where  the  gov- 
erness had  placed  a  bunch  of  Alpine  flowers. 
Down  on  her  knees  on  the  balcony  went  the 
little  Marie,  regardless  of  the  snow,  and  prayed 
to  the  shrine  of  the  Virgin  below  —  for  what? 
For  forgiveness?  For  a  better  life?  Not  at  all. 
She  prayed  that  the  heels  of  the  American  girl 
would  keep  her  in  out  of  the  snow. 

The  prayer  of  the  wicked  availeth  nothing; 
even  the  godly  at  times  must  suffer  disappoint- 
ment. And  when  one  prays  of  heels,  who  can 
know  of  the  yearning  back  of  the  praying? 
Marie,  rising  and  dusting  her  chilled  knees,  san 
the  party  of  Americans  on  the  road,  clad  ii 
stout  boots  and  swinging  along  gayly.  Marie 
shrugged  her  shoulders  resignedly.  She  should 
have  gone  to  the  shrine  itself;  a  balcony  was  not 

173 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

a  holy  place.  But  one  thing  she  determined  — 
the  Americans  went  toward  the  Sonnwendstein. 
She  would  advise  against  the  Sonnwendstein 
for  that  day. 

Marie's  day  of  days  had  begun  wrong  after 
all.  For  Stewart  rose  with  the  Sonnwendstein 
in  his  mind,  and  no  suggestion  of  Marie's  that 
in  another  day  a  path  would  be  broken  had  any 
effect  on  him.  He  was  eager  to  be  off,  com- 
mitted the  extravagance  of  ordering  an  egg 
apiece  for  breakfast,  and  finally  proclaimed 
that  if  Marie  feared  the  climb  he  would  go  alone. 

Marie  made  many  delays :  she  dressed  slowly, 
and  must  run  back  to  see  if  the  balcony  door  was 
securely  closed.  At  a  little  shop  where  they 
stopped  to  buy  mountain  sticks  she  must  pur- 
chase postcards  and  send  them  at  once.  Stewart 
was  fairly  patient:  air  and  exercise  were  having 
their  effect. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when,  having  crossed 
the  valley,  they  commenced  to  mount  the  slope 
of  the  Sonnwendstein.  The  climb  was  easy; 
the  road  wound  back  and  forward  on  itself  sc 
that  one  ascended  with  hardly  an  effort, 
Stewart  gave  Marie  a  hand  here  and  there,  and 
even  paused  to  let  her  sit  on  a  boulder  and  rest. 
The  snow  was  not  heavy;  he  showed  her  the 
footprints  of  a  party  that  had  gone  ahead,  and 
to  amuse  her  tried  to  count  the  number  of 

174 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

people.  When  he  found  it  was  five  he  grew 
thoughtful.  There  were  five  in  Anita's  party. 
Thanks  to  Marie's  delays  they  met  the  Ameri- 
cans coming  down.  The  meeting  was  a  short 
one:  the  party  went  on  down,  gayly  talking. 
Marie  and  Stewart  climbed  silently.  Marie's 
day  was  spoiled;  Stewart  had  promised  to  dine 
at  the  hotel. 

Even  the  view  at  the  tourist  house  did  not 
restore  Marie's  fallen  spirits.  What  were  the 
Vienna  plain  and  the  Styrian  Alps  to  her,  with 
this  impatient  and  frowning  man  beside  her 
consulting  his  watch  and  computing  the  time 
until  he  might  see  the  American  again?  What 
was  prayer,  if  this  were  its  answer? 

They  descended  rapidly,  Stewart  always  in 
the  lead  and  setting  a  pace  that  Marie  struggled 
in  vain  to  meet.  To  her  tentative  and  breathless 
remarks  he  made  brief  answer,  and  only  once 
in  all  that  time  did  he  volunteer  a  remark. 
They  had  reached  the  Hotel  Erzherzog  in  the 
valley.  The  hotel  was  still  closed,  and  Marie, 
panting,  sat  down  on  an  edge  of  the  terrace. 

"We  have  been  very  foolish,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

"Being  seen  together  like  that." 

"But  why?  Could  you  not  walk  with  any 
woman?" 

"It's  not  that,"  said  Stewart  hastily.  "1 
175 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

suppose  once  does  not  matter.  But  we  can't 
be  seen  together  all  the  time." 

Marie  turned  white.  The  time  had  gone  by 
when  an  incident  of  the  sort  could  have  been 
met  with  scorn  or  with  threats;  things  had 
changed  for  Marie  Jedlicka  since  the  day  Peter 
had  refused  to  introduce  her  to  Harmony.  Then 
it  had  been  vanity;  now  it  was  life  itself. 

"What  you  mean,"  she  said  with  pale  lips, 
"is  that  we  must  not  be  seen  together  at  all. 
Must  I  —  do  you  wish  me  to  remain  a  prisoner 
while  you — "  she  choked. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,"  he  broke  out  brutally, 
"don't  make  a  scene.  There  are  men  cutting 
ice  over  there.  Of  course  you  are  not  a  prisoner. 
You  may  go  where  you  like." 

Marie  rose  and  picked  up  her  muff. 

Marie's  sordid  little  tragedy  played  itself  out 
in  Semmering.  Stewart  neglected  her  almost 
completely;  he  took  fewer  and  fewer  meals  at 
the  villa.  In  two  weeks  he  spent  one  evening 
with  the  girl,  and  was  so  irritable  that  she 
went  to  bed  crying.  The  little  mountain  resort 
was  filling  up;  there  were  more  and  more 
Americans.  Christmas  was  drawing  near  and  a 
dozen  or  so  American  doctors  came  up,  bringing 
their  families  for  the  holidays.  It  was  difficult  to 
enter  a  shop  without  encountering  some  of  them. 

176 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

To  add  to  the  difficulty,  the  party  at  the  hotel, 
finding  it  crowded  there,  decided  to  go  into  a 
pension  and  suggested  moving  to  the  Waldheim. 

Stewart  himself  was  wretchedly  uncomfort- 
able. Marie's  tragedy  was  his  predicament. 
He  disliked  himself  very  cordially,  loathing 
himself  and  his  situation  with  the  new-born 
humility  of  the  lover.  For  Stewart  was  in  love 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  Marie  knew  it. 
She  had  not  lived  with  him  for  months  without 
knowing  his  every  thought,  every  mood.  She 
grew  bitter  and  hard  those  days,  sitting  alone 
"Vy  the  green  stove  hi  the  Pension  Waldheim, 
or  leaning,  elbows  on  the  rail,  looking  from  the 
balcony  over  the  valley  far  below.  Bitter  and 
hard,  that  is,  during  his  absences:  he  had  but  to 
enter  the  room  and  her  rage  died,  to  be  replaced 
with  yearning  and  little,  shy,  tentative  advances 
that  he  only  tolerated.  Wild  thoughts  came  to 
Marie,  especially  at  night,  when  the  stars  made 
a  crown  over  the  Rax,  and  in  the  hotel  an 
orchestra  played,  while  people  dined  and  laughed 
and  loved. 

She  grew  obstinate,  too.  When  in  his  despera- 
tion Stewart  suggested  that  they  go  back  to 
Vienna  she  openly  scoffed. 

"Why?"  she  demanded.  "That  you  may 
come  back  here  to  her,  leaving  me  there?" 

"My  dear  girl,"  he  flung  back  exasperated, 
177 


"this  affair  was  not  a  permanent  one.  You 
knew  that  at  the  start." 

"  You  have  taken  me  away  from  my  work. 
I  have  two  months'  vacation.  It  is  but  one 
month." 

"Go  back  and  let  me  pay  - 

"No!" 

In  pursuance  of  the  plan  to  leave  the  hotel 
the  American  party  came  to  see  the  Waldheim, 
and  catastrophe  almost  ensued.  Luckily  Marie 
was  on  the  balcony  when  the  landlady  flung 
open  the  door,  and  announced  it  as  Stewart's 
apartment.  But  Stewart  had  a  bad  five  min- 
utes and  took  it  out,  manlike,  on  the  girl. 

Stewart  had  another  reason  for  not  wishing 
to  leave  Semmering.  Anita  was  beautiful,  a  bit 
of  a  coquette,  too;  as  are  most  pretty  women. 
And  Stewart  was  not  alone  in  his  devotion. 
A  member  of  the  party,  a  New  Yorker  named 
Adam,  was  much  in  love  with  the  girl  and  in- 
different who  knew  it.  Stewart  detested  him. 

In  his  despair  Stewart  wrote  to  Peter  Byrne. 
It  was  characteristic  of  Peter  that,  however 
indifferent  people  might  be  in  prosperity, they 
always  turned  to  him  in  trouble.  Stewart's 
letter  concluded :  — 

"I  have  made  out  a  poor  case  for  myself; 
but  I  'm  in  a  hole,  as  you  can  see.  I  would  like 

178 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

to  chuck  everything  here  and  sail  for  home  with 
these  people  who  go  in  January.  But,  confound 
it,  Byrne,  what  am  I  to  do  with  Marie?  And 
that  brings  me  to  what  I  've  been  wanting  to 
say  all  along,  and  have  n't  had  the  courage  to. 
Marie  likes  you  and  you  rather  liked  her,  did  n't 
you?  You  could  talk  her  into  reason  if  anybody 
could.  Now  that  you  know  how  things  are, 
can't  you  come  up  over  Sunday?  It's  asking  a 
lot,  and  I  know  it;  but  things  are  pretty  bad." 

Peter  received  the  letter  on  the  morning  of 
the  day  before  Christmas.  He  read  it  several 
times  and,  recalling  the  look  he  had  seen  more 
than  once  in  Marie  Jedlicka's  eyes,  he  knew  that 
things  were  very  bad,  indeed. 

But  Peter  was  a  man  of  family  in  those  days, 
and  Christmas  is  a  family  festival  not  to  be 
lightly  ignored.  He  wired  to  Stewart  that  he 
would  come  up  as  soon  as  possible  after  Christ- 
mas. Then,  because  of  the  look  in  Marie's  eyes 
and  because  he  feared  for  her  a  sad  Christmas, 
full  of  heartaches  and  God  knows  what  lone- 
liness, he  bought  her  a  most  hideous  brooch, 
which  he  thought  admirable  in  every  way  and 
highly  ornamental  and  which  he  could  not  afford 
at  all.  This  he  mailed,  with  a  cheery  greeting, 
and  feeling  happier  and  much  poorer  made  his 
way  homeward. 


CHAPTER  XV 

CHRISTMAS-EVE  in  the  saloon  of  Maria 
V^  Theresa!  Christmas-Eve,  with  the  great 
chandelier  recklessly  ablaze  and  a  pig's  head  with 
cranberry  eyes  for  supper !  Christmas-Eve,  with 
a  two-foot  tree  gleaming  with  candles  on  the 
stand,  and  beside  the  stand,  in  a  huge  chair, 
Jimmy! 

It  had  been  a  busy  day  for  Harmony .  In 
the  morning  there  had  been  shopping  and 
marketing,  and  such  a  temptation  to  be  reckless, 
with  the  shops  full  of  ecstasies  and  the  old 
flower  women  fairly  overburdened.  There  had 
been  anxieties,  too,  such  as  the  pig's  head, 
which  must  be  done  a  certain  way,  and  Jimmy, 
who  must  be  left  with  the  Portier's  wife  as 
nurse  while  all  of  them  went  to  the  hospital. 
The  house  revolved  around  Jimmy  now,  Jimmy, 
who  seemed  the  better  for  the  moving,  and 
whose  mother  as  yet  had  failed  to  materialize. 

In  the  afternoon  Harmony  played  at  the  hos- 
pital. Peter  took  her  as  the  early  twilight  was 
falling  in  through  the  gate  where  the  sentry 
kept  guard  and  so  to  the  great  courtyard.  In 
this  grim  playground  men  wandered  about, 

180 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

smoking  their  daily  allowance  of  tobacco  and 
moving  to  keep  warm,  offscourings  of  the 
barracks,  derelicts  of  the  slums,  with  here  and 
there  an  honest  citizen  lamenting  a  Christmas 
away  from  home.  The  hospital  was  always 
pathetic  to  Harmony;  on  this  Christmas-Eve 
she  found  it  harrowing.  Its  very  size  shocked 
her,  that  there  should  be  so  much  suffering., 
so  much  that  was  appalling,  frightful,  insup- 
portable. Peter  felt  her  quiver  under  his  hand. 
A  hospital  in  festivity  is  very  affecting. 
It  smiles  through  its  tears.  And  in  every  assem 
blage  there  are  sharply  defined  lines  of  dif- 
ference. There  are  those  who  are  going  home 
soon,  God  willing;  there  are  those  who  will 
go  home  some  time  after  long  days  and  longer 
nights.  And  there  are  those  who  will  never  go 
home  and  who  know  it.  And  because  of  this 
the  ones  who  are  never  going  home  are  most 
festively  clad,  as  if,  by  way  of  compensation, 
the  nurses  mean  to  give  them  all  future  Christ- 
masses  in  one.  They  receive  an  extra  orange 
or  a  pair  of  gloves,  perhaps,  —  and  they  are 
not  the  less  grateful  because  they  understand. 
And  when  everything  is  over  they  lay  away  in 
the  bedside  stand  the  gloves  they  will  never 
wear,  and  divide  the  extra  orange  with  a  less 
fortunate  one  who  is  almost  recovered.  Their 
last  Christmas  is  past. 

181 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"How  beautiful  the  tree  was!"  they  say. 
-Or,  "Did  you  hear  how  the  children  sang? 
So  little,  to  sing  like  that!  It  made  me  think 
1 —  of  angels." 

Peter  led  Harmony  across  the  courtyard, 
ihrough  many  twisting  corridors,  and  up  and 
down  more  twisting  staircases  to  the  room 
where  she  was  to  play.  There  were  many 
Christmas  trees  in  the  hospital  that  afternoon; 
no  one  hall  could  have  held  the  thousands  of 
patients,  the  doctors,  the  nurses.  Sometimes 
a  single  ward  had  its  own  tree,  its  own  enter- 
tainment. Occasionally  two  or  three  joined 
forces,  preempted  a  lecture-room,  and  wheeled 
or  hobbled  or  carried  in  their  convalescents. 
In  such  case  an  imposing  audience  was  the 
result. 

Into  such  a  room  Peter  led  Harmony.  It 
was  an  amphitheater,  the  seats  rising  in  tiers, 
half  circle  above  half  circle,  to  the  dusk  of  the 
roof.  In  the  pit  stood  the  tree,  candle-lighted. 
There  was  no  other  illumination  in  the 
room.  The  semi-darkness,  the  blazing  tree, 
the  rows  of  hopeful,  hoping,  hopeless,  ris- 
ing above,  white  faces  over  white  gowns,  the 
soft  rustle  of  expectancy,  the  silence  when 
the  Dozent  with  the  red  beard  stepped  out 
and  began  to  read  an  address  —  all  caught 
Harmony  by  the  throat.  Peter,  keenly  alive 

182 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

to  everything  she  did,  felt  rather  than  heard 
her  soft  sob. 

Peter  saw  the  hospital  anew  that  dark  after- 
noon, saw  it  through  Harmony's  eyes.  Layer 
after  layer  his  professional  callus  fell  away, 
leaving  him  quick  again.  He  had  lived  so  long 
close  to  the  heart  of  humanity  that  he  had 
reduced  its  throbbing  to  beats  that  might  be 
counted.  Now,  once  more,  Peter  was  back  in 
the  early  days,  when  a  heart  was  not  a  pump, 
but  a  thing  that  ached  or  thrilled  or  struggled, 
that  loved  or  hated  or  yearned. 

The  orchestra,  insisting  on  sadly  sentimental 
music,  was  fast  turning  festivity  into  gloom. 
It  played  Handel's  "Largo";  it  threw  its  whole 
soul  into  the  assurance  that  the  world,  after 
all,  was  only  a  poor  place,  that  Heaven  was  a 
better.  It  preached  resignation  with  every  deep 
vibration  of  the  cello.  Harmony  fidgeted. 

"How  terrible!"  she  whispered.  :'To  turn 
their  Christmas-Eve  into  mourning!  Stop 
them!" 

"Stop  a  German  orchestra?" 

"They  are  crying,  some  of  them.   Oh,  Peter!" 

The  music  came  to  an  end  at  last.  Tears  were 
dried.  Followed  recitations,  gifts,  a  speech  of 
thanks  from  Nurse  Elisabet  for  the  patients. 
Then  —  Harmony. 

Harmony  never  remembered  afterward  what 
188 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

she  had  played.  It  was  joyous,  she  knew,  for 
the  whole  atmosphere  changed.  Laughter  came; 
even  the  candles  burned  more  cheerfully.  When 
she  had  finished,  a  student  in  a  white  coat 
asked  her  to  play  a  German  Volkspiel,  and 
roared  it  out  to  her  accompaniment  with  much 
vigor  and  humor.  The  audience  joined  in,  at 
first  timidly,  then  lustily. 

Harmony  stood  alone  by  the  tree,  violin 
poised,  smiling  at  the  applause.  Her  eyes, 
running  along  the  dim  amphitheater,  sought 
Peter's,  and  finding  them  dwelt  there  a  mo- 
ment. Then  she  began  to  play  softly  and  as 
softly  the  others  sang. 

"  Stille  Nacht,  heilige  Nacht,"  — 
they  sang,  with  upturned  eyes. 

"  Alles  schlaft,  einsam  wacht.     .     .     ." 

Visions  came  to  Peter  that  afternoon  in  the 
darkness,  visions  in  which  his  poverty  was  for- 
gotten or  mattered  not  at  all.  Visions  of  a 
Christmas-Eve  in  a  home  that  he  had  earned, 
of  a  tree,  of  a  girl-woman,  of  a  still  and  holy 
night,  of  a  child. 

"  Nur  das  traute,  hoch  heilige  Paar 
Holder  Knabe  im  lockigen  Haar 
Schlaf  in  himmlischer  Ruh', 
Schlaf'  in  himmlischer  Ruh'," 

they  sang. 

184 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

There  was  real  festivity  at  the  old  lodge  of 
Maria  Theresa  that  night. 

Jimmy  had  taken  his  full  place  in  the  house- 
hold. The  best  room,  which  had  been  Anna's, 
h ad  been  given  up  to  him .  Here,  carefully  tended , 
with  a  fire  all  day  in  the  stove,  Jimmy  reigned 
from  the  bed.  To  him  Harmony  brought  her 
small  puzzles  and  together  they  solved  them. 

"Shall  it  be  a  steak  to-night?"  thus  Harmony 
humbly.  "Or  chops?" 

"With  tomato  sauce?" 

"If  Peter  allows,  yes." 

Much  thinking  on  Jimmy's  part,  and  then: — • 

"Fish,"  he  would  decide.  "Fish  with  egg 
dressing." 

They  would  argue  for  a  time,  and  compromise 
on  fish. 

The  boy  was  better.  Peter  shook  his  head  over 
any  permanent  improvement,  but  Anna  fiercely 
seized  each  crumb  of  hope.  Many  and  bitter 
were  the  battles  she  and  Peter  fought  at  night 
over  his  treatment,  frightful  the  litter  of  author- 
ities Harmony  put  straight  every  morning. 

The  extra  expense  was  not  much,  but  it  told. 
Peter's  carefully  calculated  expenditures  felt 
the  strain.  He  gave  up  a  course  in  X-ray  on 
which  he  had  set  his  heart  and  cut  off  his  hour 
in  the  coffee-house  as  a  luxury.  There  was  no 
hardship  about  the  latter  renunciation.  Life 

185 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

for  Peter  was  spelling  itself  very  much  in  terms 
of  Harmony  and  Jimmy  those  days.  He  re- 
sented anything  that  took  him  from  them. 

There  were  anxieties  of  a  different  sort  also. 
Anna's  father  was  failing.  He  had  written 
her  a  feeble,  half-senile  appeal  to  let  bygones 
be  bygones  and  come  back  to  see  him  before  he 
died.  Anna  was  Peter's  great  prop.  What 
would  he  do  should  she  decide  to  go  home? 
He  had  built  his  house  on  the  sand,  indeed. 

So  far  the  threatened  danger  of  a  mother  to 
Jimmy  had  not  materialized.  Peter  was  puz- 
zled, but  satisfied.  He  still  wrote  letters  of 
marvelous  adventure;  Jimmy  still  watched  for 
them,  listened  breathless,  treasured  them  under 
his  pillow.  But  he  spoke  less  of  his  father. 
The  open  page  of  his  childish  mind  was  being 
written  over  with  new  impressions.  "Dad" 
was  already  a  memory;  Peter  and  Harmony 
and  Anna  were  realities.  Sometimes  he  called 
Peter  "Dad."  At  those  times  Peter  caught  the 
boy  to  him  in  an  agony  of  tenderness. 

And  as  the  little  apartment  revolved  round 
Jimmy,  so  was  this  Christmas-Eve  given  up  to 
him.  All  day  he  had  stayed  in  bed  for  the 
privilege  of  an  extra  hour  propped  up  among 
pillows  in  the  salon.  All  day  he  had  strung 
little  red  berries  that  looked  like  cranberries  for 
the  tree,  or  fastened  threads  to  the  tiny  cakes 

186 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

that  were  for  trimming  only,  and  sternly  for- 
bidden to  eat. 

A  marvelous  day  that  for  Jimmy.  Late  in 
the  afternoon  the  Portier,  with  a  collar  on,  had 
mounted  the  stairs  and  sheepishly  presented 
him  with  a  pair  of  white  mice  in  a  wooden  cage, 
Jimmy  was  thrilled.  The  cage  was  on  his  knees 
all  evening,  and  one  of  the  mice  was  clearly  ill 
of  a  cake  with  pink  icing.  The  Portier's  gift 
was  a  stealthy  one,  while  his  wife  was  having 
coffee  with  her  cousin,  the  brushmaker.  But 
the  spirit  of  Christmas  does  strange  things. 
That  very  evening,  while  the  Portier  was  rois- 
tering in  a  beer  hall  preparatory  to  the  mid- 
night mass,  came  the  Portier's  wife,  puffing 
from  the  stairs,  and  brought  a  puzzle  box  that 
only  the  initiated  could  open,  and  when  one 
succeeded  at  last  there  was  a  picture  of  the 
Christ-Child  within. 

Young  McLean  came  to  call  that  evening  — 
came  to  call  and  remained  to  worship.  It  was 
the  first  time  since  Mrs.  Boyer  that  a  visitor 
had  come.  McLean,  interested  with  everything 
and  palpably  not  shocked,  was  a  comforting 
caller.  He  seemed  to  Harmony,  who  had  had 
bad  moments  since  the  day  of  Mrs.  Boyer's 
visit,  to  put  the  hallmark  of  respectability  on 
the  household,  to  restore  it  to  something  it  had 
lost  or  had  never  had. 

187 


She  was  quite  unconscious  of  McLean's 
admiration.  She  and  Anna  put  Jimmy  to  bed. 
The  tree  candles  were  burned  out;  Peter  was 
extinguishing  the  dying  remnants  when  Har- 
mony came  back.  McLean  was  at  the  piano, 
thrumming  softly.  Peter,  turning  round  sud- 
denly, surprised  an  expression  on  the  younger 
man's  face  that  startled  him. 

For  that  one  night  Harmony  had  laid  aside 
her  mourning,  and  wore  white,  soft  white, 
tucked  in  at  the  neck,  short-sleeved,  trailing. 
Peter  had  never  seen  her  in  white  before. 

It  was  Peter's  way  to  sit  back  and  listen: 
his  steady  eyes  were  always  alert,  good-hu- 
mored, but  he  talked  very  little.  That  night 
he  was  unusually  silent.  He  sat  in  the  shadow 
away  from  the  lamp  and  watched  the  two  at 
the  piano:  McLean  playing  a  \. v";  of  this  or  that, 
the  girl  bending  over  a  string  of  her  violin. 
Anna  came  in  and  sat  down  near  him. 

"The  boy  is  quite  fascinated,"  she  whispered. 
"Watch  his  eyes!" 

"He  is  a  nice  boy."  This  from  Peter,  as  if 
he  argued  with  himself. 

"As  men  go!"  This  was  a  challenge  Peter 
was  usually  quick  to  accept.  That  .night  he 
only  smiled.  "It  would  be  a  good  thing  for 
her:  his  people  are  wealthy." 

Money,  always  money!  Peter  ground  hi? 
188 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

teeth  over  his  pipestem.  Eminently  it  would 
be  a  good  thing  for  Harmony,  this  nice  boy  m 
his  well-made  evening  clothes,  who  spoke 
Harmony's  own  language  of  music,  who  was 
almost  speechless  over  her  playing,  and  who 
looked  up  at  her  with  eyes  in  which  admiration 
was  not  unmixed  with  adoration. 

Peter  was  restless.  As  the  music  went  on 
he  tiptoed  out  of  the  room  and  took  to  pacing 
up  and  down  the  little  corridor.  Each  time  as 
he  passed  the  door  he  tried  not  to  glance  in; 
each  time  he  paused  involuntarily.  Jealousy 
had  her  will  of  him  that  night,  jealousy,  when 
he  had  never  acknowledged  even  to  himself 
how  much  the  girl  was  to  him. 

Jimmy  was  restless.  Usually  Harmony's 
music  put  him  to  sleep;  but  that  night  he  lay 
awake,  even  after  Peter  had  closed  all  the  doors. 
Peter  came  in  and  sat  with  him  in  the  dark, 
going  over  now  and  then  to  cover  him,  or  to 
give  him  a  drink,  or  to  pick  up  the  cage  ot  mice 
which  Jimmy  insisted  on  having  beside  him  and 
which  constantly  slipped  off  on  to  the  floor. 
After  a  time  Peter  lighted  the  night-light,  a 
bit  of  wick  on  a  cork  floating  in  a  saucer  of 
lard  oil,  and  set  it  on  the  bedside  table.  Then 
round  it  he  arranged  Jimmy's  treasures,  the 
deer  antlers,  the  cage  of  mice,  the  box,  the 
wooden  sentry.  The  boy  fell  asleep.  Peter  sat 

189 


in  the  room,  his  dead  pipe  in  his  teeth,  and 
thought  of  many  things. 

It  was  very  late  when  young  McLean  left. 
The  two  had  played  until  they  stopped  for 
very  weariness.  Anna  had  yawned  herself  off  to 
bed.  From  Jimmy's  room  Peter  could  hear  the 
soft  hum  of  their  voices. 

"  You  have  been  awfully  good  to  me,"  McLean 
said  as  he  finally  rose  to  go.  "I  —  I  want  you 
to  know  that  I'll  never  forget  this  evening,, 
never." 

"It  has  been  splendid,  hasr1^  it?  Since 
little  Scatchy  left  there  has  been  no  one  for  the 
piano.  I  have  been  lonely  sometimes  for  some 
one  to  talk  music  to." 

Lonely!  Poor  Peter! 

"Then  you  will  let  me  come  back?" 

"Will  I,  indeed!    I  --  I  '11  be  grateful." 

"How  soon  would  be  proper?  I  dare  say 
to-morrow  you'll  be  busy  —  Christmas  and 
all  that." 

"Do  you  mean  you  would  like  to  come  to- 
morrow?" 

"  If  old  Peter  would  n't  be  fussed.  He  might 
think—" 

"Peter  always  wants  every  one  to  be  happy. 
So  if  you  really  care  — " 

"And  I '11  not  bore  you?" 

"Rather  not!" 

190 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"How  —  about  what  time?" 

"In  the  afternoon  would  be  pleasant,  I  think. 
And  then  Jimmy  can  listen.  He  loves  music." 

McLean,  having  found  his  fur-lined  coat, 
got  into  it  as  slowly  as  possible.  Then  he  missed 
a  glove,  and  it  must  be  searched  for  in  all  the 
dark  corners  of  the  salon  until  found  in  his 
pocket.  Even  then  he  hesitated,  lingered, 
loath  to  break  up  this  little  world  of  two. 

''You  play  wonderfully,"  he  said. 

"So  do  you." 

"If  only  something  comes  of  it!  It's  curious, 
is  n't  it,  when  you  think  of  it?  You  and  I 
meeting  here  in  the  center  of  Europe  and  botk 
of  us  working  our  heads  off  for  something  that 
may  never  pan  out." 

There  was  something  reminiscent  about  that 
to  Harmony.  It  was  not  until  after  young 
McLean  had  gone  that  she  recalled.  It  was 
almost  word  for  word  what  Peter  had  said  to 
her  in  the  coffee-house  the  night  they  met. 
She  thought  it  very  curious,  the  coincidence, 
and  pondered  it,  being  ignorant  of  the  fact 
that  it  is  always  a  matter  for  wonder  when  the 
man  meets  the  woman,  no  matter  where. 
Nothing  is  less  curious,  more  inevitable,  more 
amazing.  "You  and  I,"  forsooth,  said  Peter! 
"You  and  I,"  cried  young  McLean! 


CHAPTER  XVI 

QUITE  suddenly  Peter's  house,  built  on 
the  sand,  collapsed.  The  shock  came  on 
Christmas-Day,  after  young  McLean,  now 
frankly  infatuated,  had  been  driven  home  by 
Peter. 

Peter  did  it  after  his  own  fashion.  Harmony, 
with  unflagging  enthusiasm,  was  looking  tired. 
Suggestions  to  this  effect  rolled  off  McLean's 
back  like  rain  off  a  roof.  Finally  Peter  gathered 
up  the  fur-lined  coat,  the  velours  hat,  gloves, 
and  stick,  and  placed  them  on  the  piano  in 
front  of  the  younger  man. 

"I'm  sorry  you  must  go,"  said  Peter  calmly, 
"but,  as  you  say,  Miss  Wells  is  tired  and  there 
is  supper  to  be  eaten.  Don't  let  me  hurry  you." 

The  Portier  was  at  the  door  as  McLean, 
laughing  and  protesting,  went  out.  He  brought 
a  cablegram  for  Anna.  Peter  took  it  to  her 
door  and  waited  uneasily  while  she  read  it. 

It  was  an  urgent  summons  home;  the  old 
father  was  very  low.  He  was  calling  for  her, 
and  a  few  days  or  weeks  would  see  the  end. 
There  were  things  that  must  be  looked  after. 
The  need  of  her  was  imperative.  With  the  death 

192 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

• 

the  old  man's  pension  would  cease  and  Anna 
was  the  bread-winner. 

Anna  held  the  paper  out  to  Peter  and  sat 
down.  Her  nervous  strength  seemed  to  have 
deserted  her.  All  at  once  she  was  a  stricken, 
elderly  woman,  with  hope  wiped  out  of  her 
face  and  something  nearer  resentment  than 
grief  in  its  place. 

"It  has  come,  Peter,"  she  said  dully.  "I 
always  knew  it  could  n't  last.  They  Ve  always 
hung  about  my  neck,  and  now  - 

"  Do  you  think  you  must  go?  Is  n't  there  some 
way?  If  things  are  so  bad  you  could  hardly 
get  there  in  time,  and  —  you  must  think  of 
yourself  a  little,  Anna." 

"I  am  not  thinking  of  anything  else.  Peter, 
I'm  an  uncommonly  selfish  woman,  but  I  - 

Quite  without  warning  she  burst  out  cry- 
ing, unlovely,  audible  weeping  that  shook 
her  narrow  shoulders.  Harmony  heard  the 
sound  and  joined  them.  After  a  look  at 
Anna  she  sat  down  beside  her  and  put  a 
white  arm  over  her  shoulders.  She  did  not 
try  to  speak.  Anna's  noisy  grief  subsided  as 
suddenly  as  it  came.  She  patted  Harmony's 
hand  in  mute  acknowledgment  and  dried  her 
eyes. 

"I  'm  not  grieving,  child,"  she  said;  "I  'm  only 
realizing  wrhat  a  selfish  old  maid  I  am.  I  'm 

193 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

• 

crying  because  I  'm  a  disappointment  to  my- 
self.   Harry,  I  'm  going  back  to  America." 

And  that,  after  hours  of  discussion,  was 
where  they  ended.  Anna  must  go  at  once.  Peter 
must  keep  the  apartment,  having  Jimmy  to 
.look  after  and  to  hide.  Vvxiat  was  a  frightful 
dilemma  to  him  and  to  Harmony  Anna  took 
rather  lightly. 

:<  You  '11  find  some  one  else  to  take  my  place," 
she  said.  "If  I  had  a  day  I  could  find  a  dozen.'* 

"And  in  the  interval?"  Harmony  asked,  with- 
out looking  at  Peter. 

"The  interval!  Tut!  Peter  is  your  brother, 
to  all  intents  and  purposes.  And  if  you  are  think- 
ing of  scandal-mongers,  who  will  know?" 

Having  determined  to  go,  no  arguments 
moved  Anna,  nor  could  either  of  the  two  think 
of  anything  to  urge  beyond  a  situation  she  re- 
fused to  see,  or  rather  a  situation  she  refused 
to  acknowledge.  She  was  not  as  comfortable 
as  she  pretended.  During  all  that  long  night, 
while  snow  sifted  down  into  the  ugly  yard 
and  made  it  beautiful,  while  Jimmy  slept  and 
the  white  mice  played,  while  Harmony  tossed 
and  tried  to  sleep  and  Peter  sat  in  his  cold  room 
and  smoked  his  pipe,  Anna  packed  her  untidy 
belongings  and  added  a  name  now  and  then  to 
a  list  that  was  meant  for  Peter,  a  list  of  possible 
substitutes  for  herself  in  the  little  household. 

194 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

She  left  early  the  next  morning,  a  grim  little 
person  who  bent  over  the  sleeping  boy  hun- 
grily, and  insisted  on  carrying  her  own  bag 
dowrn  the  stairs.  Harmony  did  not  go  to 
the  station,  but  stayed  at  home,  pale  and 
silent,  hovering  around  against  Jimmy's  awak- 
ening and  struggling  against  a  feeling  of  panic. 
Not  that  she  feared  Peter  or  herself.  But 
she  was  conventional ;  shielded  girls  are  ac- 
customed to  lean  for  a  certain  support  on 
the  proprieties,  as  bridgeplayers  depend  on 
rules. 

Peter  came  back  to  breakfast,  but  ate  little. 
Harmony  did  not  even  sit  down,  but  drank  her 
cup  of  coffee  standing,  looking  down  at  the 
snow  below.  Jimmy  still  slept. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  said  Peter. 

"I  'm  not  hungry,  thank  you.'* 

"You  can  sit  down  without  eating." 

Peter  was  nervous.  To  cover  his  uneasiness 
he  was  distinctly  gruff.  He  pulled  a  chair  out 
for  her  and  she  sat  down.  Now  that  they  were 
face  to  face  the  tension  was  lessened.  Peter 
laid  Anna's  list  on  the  table  between  them  and 
bent  over  it  toward  her. 

"You  are  hurting  me  very  much,  Harry," 
he  said.  "Do  you  know  why?" 

"I?  I  am  only  sorry  about  Anna.  I  miss 
her.  I  —  I  was  fond,  of  her." 

195 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"So  was  I.  But  that  isn't  it,  Harry.  It's 
something  else." 

"I'm  uncomfortable,  Peter." 

"So  am  I.  I 'm  sorry  you  don't  trust  me.  For 
that's  it." 

"Not  at  all.  But,  Peter,  what  will  people 
say?" 

"A  great  deal,  if  they  know.  Who  is  to  know? 
How  many  people  know  about  us?  A  handful, 
at  the  most,  McLean  and  Mrs.  Boyer  and  one 
or  two  others.  Of  course  I  can  go  away  until  we 
get  some  one  to  take  Anna's  place,  but  you'd 
be  here  alone  at  night,  and  if  the  youngster 
had  an  attack  - 

"Oh,  no,  don't  leave  him!" 

"It's  holiday  time.  There  are  no  clinics 
until  next  week.  If  you  '11  put  up  with  me  - 

"Put  up  with  you,  when  it  is  your  apart- 
ment I  use,  your  food  I  eat!"  She  almost 
choked.  "Peter,  I  must  talk  about  money." 

"I'm  coming  to  that.  Don't  you  suppose 
you  more  than  earn  everything?  Doesn't  it 
humiliate  me  hourly  to  see  you  working  here?" 

"Peter!  Would  you  rob  me  of  my  last  vestige 
of  self-respect?" 

This  being  unanswerable,  Peter  fell  back  on 
his  major  premise: 

"If  you  '11  put  up  with  me  for  a  day  or  so 
I  '11  take  this  list  of  Anna's  and  hunt  up  some- 

196 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

body.  Just  describe  the  person  you  desire  and 
I  '11  find  her."  He  assumed  a  certainty  he  was 
far  from  feeling,  but  it  reassured  the  girl.  "A 
woman,  of  course?" 

"Of  course.    And  not  young." 
"  'Not  young,'"  wrote  Peter.    "Fat?" 
Harmony  recalled  Mrs.  Boyer's  ample  figure 
and  shook  her  head. 

"Not  too  stout.  And  agreeable.  That 's  most 
important." 

"  'Agreeable,'"  wrote  Peter.  "Although  Anna 
was  hardly  agreeable,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the 
word,  was  she?" 

"She  was  interesting,  and  —  and  human." 
"'Human!'"     wrote    Peter.      "Wanted,     a 
woman,    not  young,   not   too   stout,   agreeable 
and  human.    Shall   I   advertise?" 

The  strain  was  quite  gone  by  that  time. 
Harmony  was  smiling.  Jimmy,  waking,  called 
for  food,  and  the  morning  of  the  first  day  was 
under  way. 

Peter  was  well  content  that  morning,  in  spite 
of  an  undercurrent  of  uneasiness.  Before  this 
Anna  had  shared  his  proprietorship  with  him. 
Now  the  little  household  was  his.  His  vicari- 
ous domesticity  pleased  him.  He  strutted  about, 
taking  a  new  view  of  his  domain;  he  tightened 
a  doorknob  and  fastened  a  noisy  window.  He 
inspected  the  coal-supply  and  grumbled  over 

197 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

its  quality.  He  filled  the  copper  kettle  on  the 
stove,  carried  in  the  water  for  Jimmy's  morning 
bath,  cleaned  the  mouse  cage.  He  even  insisted 
on  peeling  tht  little  German  potatoes,  until 
Harmony  cried  aloud  at  his  wastefulness  and 
took  the  knife  from  him. 

And  afterward,  while  Harmony  in  the  sick- 
room read  aloud  and  Jimmy  put  the  wooden 
sentry  into  the  cage  to  keep  order,  he  got  out 
his  books  and  tried  to  study.  But  he  did  little 
work.  His  book  lay  on  his  knee,  his  pipe  died 
beside  him.  The  strangeness  of  the  situation 
came  over  him,  sitting  there,  and  left  him 
rather  frightened.  -He  tried  to  see  it  from  the 
viewpoint  of  an  outsider,  and  found  himself 
incredulous  and  doubting.  McLean  would  re- 
sent the  situation.  Even  the  Portier  was  a 
person  to  reckon  with.  The  skepticism  of  the 
American  colony  was  a  thing  to  fear  and  avoid. 

And  over  all  hung  the  incessant  worry  about 
money;  he  could  just  manage  alone.  He  could 
not,  by  any  method  he  knew  of ,  stretch  his  re- 
sources to  cover  a  separate  arrangement  for 
himself.  But  he  had  undertaken  to  shield  a 
girl-woman  and  a  child,  and  shield  them  he 
would  and  could. 

Brave  thoughts  were  Peter's  that  snowy 
morning  in  the  great  salon  of  Maria  Theresa, 
with  the  cat  of  the  Portier  purring  before  the 

198 


fire;  brave  thoughts,  cool  reason,  with  Harmony 
practicing  scales  very  softly  while  Jimmy  slept> 
and  with  Anna  speeding  through  a  white  world, 
to  the  accompaniment  of  bitter  meditation. 

Peter  had  meant  to  go  to  Semmering  that 
day,  but  even  the  urgency  of  Marie's  need 
faded  before  his  own  situation.  He  wired 
Stewart  that  he  would  come  as  soon  as  he  could, 
and  immediately  after  lunch  departed  for  the 
club,  Anna's  list  in  his  pocket,  Harmony's 
requirements  in  mind.  He  paused  at  Jimmy's, 
door  on  his  way  out. 

"What  shall  it  be  to-day?"  he  inquired.  "A 
postcard  or  a  crayon?" 

"I  wish  I  could  have  a  dog." 

"We'll  have  a  dog  when  you  are  better  and 
can  take  him  walking.  Wait  until  spring,  son." 

"Some  more  mice?" 

"You  will  have  them  —  but  not  to-day." 

"What  holiday  comes  next?" 

"New  Year's  Day.  Suppose  I  bring  you  a 
New  Year's  card." 

"That's  right,"  agreed  Jimmy.  "One  I 
can  send  to  Dad.  Do  you  think  he  will  come 
back  this  year?"  wistfully. 

Peter  dropped  on  his  baggy  knees  beside  the 
bed  and  drew  the  little  wasted  figure  to  him. 

"I  think  you'll  surely  see  him  this  year,  old 
man,"  he  said  huskily. 

199 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Peter  walked  to  the  Doctors'  Club.  On  the 
way  he  happened  on  little  Georgiev,  the  Bul- 
garian, and  they  went  on  together.  Peter  man- 
aged to  make  out  that  Georgiev  was  studying 
English,  and  that  he  desired  to  know  the 
state  of  health  and  the  abode  of  the  Fraulein 
Wells.  Peter  evaded  the  latter  by  the  simple 
expedient  of  pretending  not  to  understand. 
The  little  Bulgarian  watched  him  earnestly, 
his  smouldering  eyes  not  without  suspicion. 
There  had  been  much  talk  in  the  Pension 
Schwarz  about  the  departure  together  of  the 
three  Americans.  The  Jew  from  Galicia  still 
raved  over  Harmony's  beauty. 

Georgiev  rather  hoped,  by  staying  by  Peter, 
to  be  led  toward  his  star.  But  Peter  left  him  at 
the  Doctors'  Club,  still  amiable,  but  absolutely 
obtuse  to  the  question  nearest  the  little  spy's 
heart. 

The  club  was  almost  deserted.  The  holidays 
had  taken  many  of  the  members  out  of  town. 
Other  men  were  taking  advantage  of  the  vaca- 
tion to  see  the  city,  or  to  make  acquaintance 
again  with  families  they  had  hardly  seen  during 
the  busy  weeks  before  Christmas.  The  room 
at  the  top  of  the  stairs  where  the  wives  of  the 
members  were  apt  to  meet  for  chocolate  and  to 
exchange  the  addresses  of  dressmakers  was 
empty;  in  the  reading  room  he  found  McLean. 

200 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Although  not  a  member,  McLean  was  a  sort 
of  honorary  habitue,  being  allowed  the  priv- 
ilege of  the  club  in  exchange  for  a  dependable 
willingness  to  play  at  entertainments  of  all 
sorts. 

It  was  in  Peter's  mind  to  enlist  McLean's 
assistance  in  his  difficulties.  McLean  knew 
a  good  many  people.  He  was  popular,  good- 
looking,  and  in  a  colony  where,  unlike  London 
and  Paris,  the  great  majority  were  people  of 
moderate  means,  he  was  conspicuously  well  off. 
But  he  was  also  much  younger  than  Peter  and 
intolerant  with  the  insolence  of  youth.  Peter 
was  thinking  hard  as  he  took  off  his  overcoat 
and  ordered  beer. 

The  boy  was  in  love  with  Harmony  already; 
Peter  had  seen  that,  as  he  saw  many  things. 
How  far  his  love  might  carry  him,  Peter  had 
no  idea.  It  seemed  to  him,  as  he  sat  across  the 
reading-table  and  studied  him  over  his  magazine, 
that  McLean  would  resent  bitterly  the  girl's 
position,  and  that  when  he  learned  it  a  crisis 
might  be  precipitated. 

One  of  three  things  might  happen:  He  might 
bend  all  his  energies  to  second  Peter's  effort  to 
fill  Anna's  place,  to  find  the  right  person;  he 
might  suggest  taking  Anna's  place  himself, 
and  insist  that  his  presence  in  the  apartment 
would  be  as  justifiable  as  Peter's;  or  he  might 

201 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

do  at  once  the  thing  Peter  felt  he  would  do 
eventually,  cut  the  knot  of  the  difficulty  by 
asking  Harmony  to  marry  him.  Peter,  greeting 
him  pleasantly,  decided  not  to  tell  him  any- 
thing, to  keep  him  away  if  possible  until  the 
thing  was  straightened  out,  and  to  wait  for 
an  hour  at  the  club  in  +lie  hope  that  a  solution 
might  stroll  in  for  chocolate  and  gossip. 

In  any  event  explanation  to  McLean  would 
have  required  justification.  Peter  disliked  the 
idea.  He  could  humble  himself,  if  necessary, 
to  a  woman;  he  could  admit  his  asininity  in 
assuming  the  responsibility  of  Jimmy,  for  in- 
stance, and  any  woman  worthy  of  the  name,  or 
worthy  of  living  in  the  house  with  Harmony, 
would  understand.  But  McLean  was  young, 
intolerant.  He  was  more  than  that,  though 
Peter,  concealing  from  himself  just  what  Har- 
mony meant  to  him,  would  not  have  admitted 
a  rival  for  what  he.  had  never  claimed.  But 
a  rival  the  boy  was.  Peter,  calmly  reading 
a  magazine  and  drinking  his  Munich  beer, 
was  in  the  grip  of  the  fiercest  jealousy.  He 
turned  pages  automatically,  to  recall  nothing 
of  what  he  had  read. 

McLean,  sitting  across  from  him,  watched 
him  surreptitiously.  Big  Peter,  aggressively 
masculine,  heavy  of  shoulder,  direct  of  speech 
and  eye,  was  to  him  the  embodiment  of  all 

202 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

that  a  woman  should  desire  in  a  man.  He,  too, 
was  jealous,  but  humbly  so.  Unlike  Peter  he 
knew  his  situation,  was  young  enough  to  glory 
in  it.  Shameless  love  is  always  young;  with 
years  comes  discretion,  perhaps  loss  of  confi- 
dence. The  Crusaders  were  youths,  pursuing 
an  idea  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  and  flaunting 
a  lady's  guerdon  from  spear  or  saddle-bow. 
The  older  men  among  them  tucked  the  hand- 
kerchief or  bit  of  a  gauntleted  glove  under 
jerkin  and  armor  near  the  heart,  and  flung 
to  the  air  the  guerdon  of  some  light  o'  love. 
McLean  would  have  shouted  Harmony's  name 
from  the  housetops.  Peter  did  not  acknowl- 
edge even  to  himself  that  he  was  in  love  with 
her. 

It  occurred  to  McLean  after  a  time  that 
Peter  being  in  the  club,  and  Harmony  being 
in  all  probability  at  home,  it  might  be  pos- 
sible to  see  her  alone  for  a  few  minutes.  He 
had  not  intended  to  go  back  to  the  house  in  the 
Siebensternstrasse  so  soon  after  being  peremp- 
torily put  out;  he  had  come  to  the  club  with  the 
intention  of  clinching  his  resolution  with  a  game 
of  cribbage.  But  fate  was  playing  into  his 
hands.  There  was  no  cribbage  player  round, 
and  Peter  himself  sat  across  deeply  immersed  in 
a  magazine.  McLean  rose,  not  stealthily,  but 
without  unnecessary  noise. 

20?- 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

So  far  so  good.  Peter  turned  a  page  and 
went  on  reading.  McLean  sauntered  to  a  win- 
dow, hands  in  pockets.  He  even  whistled  a 
trifle,  under  his  breath,  to  prove  how  very  casual 
were  his  intentions.  Still  whistling,  he  moved 
toward  the  door.  Peter  turned  another  page, 
which  was  curiously  soon  to  have  read  two  col- 
umns of  small  type  without  illustrations. 

Once  out  in  the  hall  McLean's  movements 
gained  aim  and  precision.  He  got  his  coat,  hat 
and  stick,  flung  the  first  over  his  arm  and  the 
second  on  his  head,  and  — 

"Going  out?"  asked  Peter  calmly. 

"  Yes,  nothing  to  do  here.  I  've  read  all  the 
infernal  old  magazines  until  I  'm  sick  of  them." 
Indignant,  too,  from  his  tone. 

"Walking?" 

"Yes." 

"Mind  if  I  go  with  you?" 

"Not  at  all." 

Peter,  taking  down  his  old  overcoat  from 
its  hook,  turned  and  caught  the  boy's  eye.  It 
was  a  swift  exchange  of  glances,  but  illuminating 
—  Peter's  whimsical,  but  with  a  sort  of  grim 
determination;  McLean's  sheepish,  but  equally 
determined. 

"Rotten  afternoon,"  said  McLean  as  they 
started  for  the  stairs.  "Half  rain,  half  snow. 
Streets  are  ankle-deep »" 

204 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I'm  not  particularly  keen  about  walking, 
but  —  I  don't  care  for  this  tomb  alone." 

Nothing   was   further  from   McLean's  mind 
than   a  walk  with   Peter  that  afternoon.     He 
hesitated  halfway  down  the  upper  flight. 
'You  don't  care  for  cribbage,  do  you?" 

"Don't  know  anything  about  it.  How  about 
pinochle?" 

They  had  both  stopped,  equally  determined, 
equally  hesitating. 

"Pinochle  it  is,"  acquiesced  McLean.  "I 
was  only  going  because  there  was  nothing  to 
do." 

Things  went  very  well  for  Peter  that  after- 
noon —  up  to  a  certain  point.  He  beat  McLean 
unmercifully,  playing  with  cold  deliberation. 
McLean  wearied,  fidgeted,  railed  at  his  luck. 
Peter  played  on  grimly. 

The  club  filled  up  toward  the  coffee-hour. 
Two  or  three  women,  wives  of  members,  a  young 
girl  to  whom  McLean  had  been  rather  atten- 
tive before  he  met  Harmony  and  who  bridled 
at  the  abstracted  bow  he  gave  her.  And,  finally, 
when  hope  in  Peter  was  dead,  one  of  the  women 
on  Anna's  list. 

Peter,  laying  down  pairs  and  marking  up 
score,  wrent  over  Harmony's  requirements.  Dr. 
Jennings  seemed  to  fit  them  all,  a  woman,  not 
young,  not  too  stout,  agreeable  and  human. 

205 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

She  was  a  large,  almost  bovinely  placid  person, 
not  at  all  reminiscent  of  Anna.  She  was  neat 
where  Anna  had  been  disorderly,  well  dressed 
and  breezy  against  Anna's  dowdiness  and  sharp- 
ness. Peter,  having  totaled  the  score,  rose  and 
looked  down  at  McLean. 

:' You're  a  nice  lad,"  he  said,  smiling.  "Some- 
time I  shall  teach  you  the  game." 

"How  about  a  lesson  to-night  in  Seven- 
Star  Street?" 

"To-night?  Why,  I  'm  sorry.  We  have  an  en- 
gagement for  to-night." 

The  "we"  was  deliberate  and  cruel.  McLean 
writhed.  Also  the  statement  was  false,  but  the 
boy  was  spared  that  knowledge  for  the  moment. 

Things  went  well.  Dr.  Jennings  was  badly 
off  for  quarters.  She  would  make  a  change  if 
she  could  better  herself.1  Peter  drew  her  off  to  a 
corner  and  stated  his  case.  She  listened  atten- 
tively, albeit  not  without  disapproval. 

She  frankly  discredited  the  altruism  of  Peter's 
motives  when  he  told  her  about  Harmony.  But 
as  the  recital  went  on  she  found  herself  rather 
touched.  The  story  of  Jimmy  appealed  to  her. 
She  scolded  and  lauded  Peter  in  one  breath,  and 
what  was  more  to  the  point,  she  promised  to  visit 
the  house  in  the  Siebensternstrasse  the  next  day. 

"So  Anna  Gates  has  gone  home!"  she  re- 
flected. "When?" 

206 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"This  morning." 

"Then  the  girl  is  there  alone?" 

'Yes.  She  is  very  young  and  inexperienced, 
and  the  boy  —  it 's  myocarditis.  She 's  afraid 
to  be  left  with  him." 

"Is  she  quite  alone?" 

"Absolutely,  and  without  funds,  except 
enough  for  her  lessons.  Our  arrangement  was 
that  she  should  keep  the  house  going;  that  was 
her  share." 

Dr.  Jennings  was  impressed.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  talk  to  Peter  and  not  believe  him. 
Women  trusted  Peter  always. 

"You've  been  very  foolish,  Dr.  Byrne,"  she 
said  as  she  rose;  "but  you  've  been  disinterested 
enough  to  offset  that  and  to  put  some  of  us  to 
shame.  To-morrow  at  three,  if  it  suits  you. 
You  said  the  Siebensternstrasse?" 

Peter  went  home  exultant. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

/CHRISTMAS-DAY  had  had  a  softening 
\^s  effect  on  Mrs.  Boyer.  It  had  opened 
badly.  It  was  the  first  Christmas  she  had  spent 
away  from  her  children,  and  there  had  been 
little  of  the  holiday  spirit  in  her  attitude  as  she 
prepared  the  Christmas  breakfast.  After  that, 
however,  things  happened. 

In  the  first  place,  under  her  plate  she  had 
found  a  frivolous  chain  and  pendant  which  she 
had  admired.  And  when  her  eyes  filled  up,  as 
they  did  whenever  she  was  emotionally  moved, 
the  doctor  had  come  round  the  table  and  put 
both  his  arms  about  her. 

"Too  young  for  you?  Not  a  bit!"  he  said 
heartily.  ''You 're  better-looking  than  you  ever 
were,  Jennie;  and  if  you  weren't  you're  the 
only  woman  for  me,  anyhow.  Don't  you  think 
I  realize  what  this  exile  means  to  you  and  that 
you  're  doing  it  for  me?" 

"I  — I   don't   mind   it." 

:' Yes,  you  do.  To-night  we'll  go  out  and  make 
a  night  of  it,  shall  we?  Supper  at  the  Grand, 
the  theater,  and  then  the  Tabarin,  eh?" 

She  loosened  herself  from  his  arms- 
208 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"What  shall  I  wear?  Those  horrible  things 
the  children  bought  me  — " 

"Throw  'em  away." 

:'They 're  not  worn  at  all." 
'Throw  them  out.    Get  rid  of  the  things  the 
children  got  you.    Go  out  to-morrow  and  buy 
something   you    like  —  not   that    I    don't   like 
you  in  anything  or  without  - 

"Frank!" 

"Be  happy,  that's  the  thing.  It's  the  first 
Christmas  without  the  family,  and  I  miss  them 
too.  But  we  're  together,  dear.  That 's  the  big 
thing.  Merry  Christmas." 

An  auspicious  opening,  that,  to  Christmas- 
Day.  And  they  had  carried  out  the  program 
as  outlined.  Mrs.  Boyer  had  enjoyed  it,  albeit 
a  bit  horrified  at  the  Christmas  gayety  at  the 
Tabarin. 

The  next  morning,  however,  she  awakened 
with  a  keen  reaction.  Her  head  ached.  She 
had  a  sense  of  taint  over  her.  She  was  virtue 
rampant  again,  as  on  the  day  she  had  first 
visited  the  old  lodge  in  the  Siebensternstrasse. 

It  is  hardly  astonishing  that  by  association 
of  ideas  Harmony  came  into  her  mind  again, 
a  brand  that  might  even  yet  be  snatched  from 
the  burning.  She  had  been  a  bit  hasty 
before,  she  admitted  to  herself.  There  was  a 
woman  doctor  named  Gates,  although  her  ad- 

209 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

dress  at  the  club  was  given  as  Pension  Schwarz. 
She  determined  to  do  her  shopping  early  and 
then  to  visit  the  house  in  the  Siebensternstrasse. 
She  was  not  a  hard  woman,  for  all  her  inflex- 
ible morality,  and  more  than  once  she  had  had 
an  uneasy  memory  of  Harmony's  bewildered, 
almost  stricken  face  the  afternoon  of  her  visit. 
She  had  been  a  watchful  mother  over  a  not  par- 
ticularly handsome  family  of  daughters.  This 
lovely  young  girl  needed  mothering  and  she 
had  refused  it.  She  would  go  back,  and  if  she 
found  she  had  been  wrong  and  the  girl  was 
deserving  and  honest,  she  would  see  what 
could  be  done. 

The  day  was  wretched.  The  snow  had  turned 
to  rain.  Mrs.  Boyer,  shopping,  dragged  wet 
skirts  and  damp  feet  from  store  to  store.  She 
found  nothing  that  she  cared  for  after  all.  The 
garments  that  looked  chic  in  the  windows  or  on 
manikins  in  the  shops,  were  absurd  on  her.  Her 
insistent  bosom  bulged,  straight  lines  became 
curves  or  tortuous  zigzags,  plackets  gaped, 
collars  choked  her  or  shocked  her  by  their  ab- 
sence. In  the  mirror  of  Marie  Jedlicka,  clad  in 
familiar  garments  that  had  accommodated  them- 
selves to  the  idiosyncrasies  of  her  figure,  Mrs. 
Boyer  was  a  plump,  rather  comely  matron. 
Here  before  the  plate  glass  of  the  modiste,  under 
the  glare  of  a  hundred  lights,  side  by  side  with  a 

210 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

slim  Austrian  salesgirl  who  looked  like  a  willow 
wand,  Mrs.  Boyer  was  grotesque,  ridiculous, 
monstrous.  She  shuddered.  She  almost  wept. 

It  was  bad  preparation  for  a  visit  to  the 
Siebensternstrasse.  Mrs.  Boyer,  finding  her 
vanity  gone,  convinced  that  she  was  an  absur- 
dity physically,  fell  back  for  comfort  on  her 
soul.  She  had  been  a  good  wife  and  mother; 
she  was  chaste,  righteous.  God  had  been  c.  :el 
to  her  in  the  flesh,  but  He  had  given  her  the 
spirit. 

"Madame  wishes  not  the  gown?  It  is  beauti- 
ful—  see  the  embroidery!  And  the  neck  may 
be  rilled  with  chiffon." 

'Young  woman,"  she  said  grimly,  "I  see 
the  embroidery;  and  the  neck  may  be  filled  with 
chiffon,  but  not  for  me !  And  when  you  have  had 
five  children,  you  will  not  buy  clothes  like 
that  either." 

All  the  kindliness  was  gone  from  the  visit 
to  the  Siebensternstrasse;  only  the  determina- 
tion remained.  Wounded  to  the  heart  of  her 
self-esteem,  her  pride  in  tatters,  she  took  her 
way  to  the  old  lodge  and  climbed  the  stairs. 

She  found  a  condition  of  mild  excitement. 
Jimmy  had  slept  long  after  his  bath.  Harmony 
practiced,  cut  up  a  chicken  for  broth,  aired 
blankets  for  the  chair  into  which  Peter  on  his 
return  was  to  lift  the  boy. 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

She  was  called  to  inspect  the  mouse-cage, 
which,  according  to  Jimmy,  had  strawberries 
in  it. 

"Far  back,"  he  explained.  "There  in  the 
cotton,  Harry." 

But  it  was  not  strawberries.  Harmony  opened 
the  cage  and  very  tenderly  took  out  the  cotton 
nest.  Eight  tiny  pink  baby  mice,  clean  washed 
by  the  mother,  lay  curled  in  a  heap. 

It  was  a  stupendous  moment.  The  joy  of  vi- 
carious parentage  was  Jimmy's.  He  named 
them  all  immediately  and  demanded  food  for 
them.  On  Harmony's  delicate  explanation  that 
this  was  unnecessary,  life  took  on  a  new  mean- 
ing for  Jimmy.  He  watched  the  mother  lest 
she  slight  one.  His  responsibility  weighed  on 
him.  Also  his  inquiring  mind  was  very  busy. 

"But  how  did  they  get  there?"  he  demanded. 

"God  sent  them,  just  as  he  sends  babies  of  all 
sorts." 

"Did  he  send  me?" 

"Of  course." 

'That's  a  good  one  on  you,  Harry.  My 
father  found  me  in  a  hollow  tree." 

"But  don't  you  think  God  had  something 
to  do  with  it?" 

Jimmy  pondered  this. 

"I  suppose,"  he  reflected,  "God  sent  Daddy 
to  find  me  so  that  I  would  be  his  little  boy. 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

You  never  happened  to  see  any  babies  when 
you  were  out  walking,  did  you,  Harry?  " 

"Not  in  stumps  —  but  I  probably  wasn't 
looking." 

Jimmy  eyed  her  with  sympathy. 

:'You  may  some  day.  Would  you  like  to 
have  one?" 

"Very  much,"  said  Harmony,  and  flushed 
delightfully. 

Jimmy  was  disposed  to  press  the  matter,  to 
urge  immediate  maternity  on  her. 

:' You  could  lay  it  here  on  the  bed,"  he  offered, 
"and  I  'd  watch  it.  When  they  yell  you  let  'em 
suck  your  finger.  I  knew  a  woman  once  that 
had  A  baby  and  she  did  that.  And  it  could  watch 
Isabella."  Isabella  was  the  mother  mouse. 
"And  when  I'm  better  I  could  take  it  walking." 

"That,"  said  Harmony  gravely,  "is  mighty 
fine  of  you,  Jimmy  boy.  I  -  -  I  '11  think  about 
it."  She  never  denied  Jimmy  anything,  so 
now  she  temporized. 

"I'll  ask  Peter." 

Harmony  had  a  half -hysterical  moment;  then: 

"Would  n't  it  be  better,"  she  asked,  "to  keep 
anything  of  that  sort  a  secret?  And  to  surprise 
Peter?" 

The  boy  loved  a  secret.  He  played  with  it  in 
lieu  of  other  occupation.  His  uncertain  future 
was  sown  thick  with  secrets  that  would  never 

213 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

flower  into  reality.  Thus  Peter  had  shame- 
lessly promised  him  a  visit  to  the  circus  when 
he  was  able  to  go,  Harmony  not  to  be  told 
until  the  tickets  were  bought.  Anna  had  simi- 
larly promised  to  send  him  from  America 
a  pitcher's  glove  and  a  baseball  bat.  To 
this  list  of  futurities  he  now  added  Harmony's 
baby. 

Harmony  brought  in  her  violin  and  played 
softly  to  him,  not  to  disturb  the  sleeping  mice. 
She  sang,  too,  a  verse  that  the  Big  Soprano 
had  been  fond  of  and  that  Jimmy  loved.  Not 
much  of  a  voice  was  Karmony's,  but  sweet  and 
low  and  very  true,  as  became  her  violinist's 
ear. 

"Ah,  well!  For  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes," 

she  sang,  her  clear  eyes  luminous. 

"  And  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away! " 

Mrs.  Boyer  mounted  the  stairs.  She  was  in  a 
very  bad  humor.  She  had  snagged  her  skirt  on  a 
nail  in  the  old  gate,  and  although  that  very 
morning  she  had  detested  the  suit,  her  round  of 
shopping  had  again  endeared  it  to  her.  She 
told  the  Portier  in  English  what  she  thought  of 
him,  and  climbed  ponderously,  pausing  at  each 
lauding  to  examine  the  damage. 

214 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony,  having  sung  Jimmy  to  sleep,  was 
in  the  throes  of  an  experiment.  She  was  trying 
to  smoke. 

A  very  human  young  person  was  Harmony, 
apt  to  be  exceedingly  wretched  if  her  hat  were  of 
last  year's  fashion,  anxious  to  be  inconspicuous 
by  doing  what  every  o»^  else  was  doing,  con- 
ventional as  are  the  \cry  young,  fearful  of 
being  an  exception. 

And  nearly  every  one  was  smoking.  Many  of 
the  young  women  whom  she  met  at  the  master's 
house  had  yellowed  fingers  and  smoked  in  the 
anteroom;  the  Big  Soprano  had  smoked;  Anna 
and  Scatchy  had  smoked;  in  the  coffee-houses 
milliners'  apprentices  produced  little  silver 
mouth-pieces  to  prevent  soiling  their  pretty 
lips  and  smoked  endlessly.  Even  Peter  had  ad- 
mitted that  it  was  not  a  vice,  but  only  a  com- 
fortable bad  habit.  And  Anna  had  left  a  hand- 
ful of  cigarettes. 

Harmony  was  not  smoking;  she  was  experi- 
menting. Peter  and  Anna  had  smoked  together 
and  it  had  looked  comradely.  Perhaps,  with- 
out reasoning  it  out,  Harmony  was  ex- 
perimenting toward  the  end  of  establishing 
her  relations  with  Peter  still  further  on 
friendly  and  comradely  grounds.  Two  men 
might  smoke  together;  a  man  and  a  womaiv 
might  smoke  together  as  friends.  According 

215 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

to  Harmony's  ideas,  a  girl  paring  potatoes 
might  inspire  sentiment,  but  smoking  a  cig- 
arette —  never ! 

She  did  not  like  it.  She  thought,  standing 
before  her  little  mirror,  that  she  looked  fast,  after 
all.  She  tried  pursing  her  lips  together,  as  she 
had  seen  Anna  do,  and  blowing  out  the  smoke 
in  a  thin  line.  She  smoked  very  hard,  so  that 
she  stood  in  the  center  of  a  gray  nimbus.  She 
hated  it,  but  she  persisted.  Perhaps  it  grew 
on  one;  perhaps,  also,  if  she  walked  about  it 
would  choke  her  less.  She  practiced  holding  the 
thing  between  her  first  and  second  fingers,  and 
found  that  easier  than  smoking.  Then  she  went 
to  the  salon  where  there  was  more  air,  and  tried 
exhaling  through  her  nose.  It  made  her  sneeze. 

On  the  sneeze  came  Mrs.  Boyer's  ring.  Har- 
mony thought  very  fast.  It  might  be  the  bread 
or  the  milk,  but  again  —  She  flung  the  cigarette 
into  the  stove,  shut  the  door,  and  answered  the 
bell. 

Mrs.  Boyer's  greeting  was  colder  than  she 
had  intended.  It  put  Harmony  on  the  defensive 
at  once,  made  her  uncomfortable.  Like  all  the 
innocent  falsely  accused  she  looked  guiltier 
than  the  guiltiest.  Under  Mrs.  Boyer's  searching 
eyes  the  enormity  of  her  situation  overwhelmed 
her.  And  over  all,  through  salon  and  passage, 
hung  the  damning  odor  of  the  cigarette.  Har- 

216 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

mony,  leading  the  way  in,  was  a  sheep  before 
her  shearer. 

"I'm  calling  on  all  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Boyer, 
sniffing.  "I  meant  to  bring  Dr.  Boyer's  cards 
for  every  one,  including  Dr.  Byrne." 

"I'm  sorry.    Dr.  Byrne  is  out." 

"And  Dr.  Gates?" 

"She  —  she  is  away." 

Mrs.  Boyer  raised  her  eyebrows  and  ostenta- 
tiously changed  the  subject,  requesting  a  needle 
and  thread  to  draw  the  rent  together.  It  had 
been  in  Harmony's  mind  to  explain  the  situation, 
to  show  Jimmy  to  Mrs.  Boyer,  to  throw  her- 
self on  the  older  woman's  sympathy,  to  ask 
advice.  But  the  visitor's  attitude  made  this 
difficult.  To  add  to  her  discomfort,  through 
the  grating  in  the  stove  door  was  coming  a 
thin  thread  of  smoke. 

It  was,  after  all,  Mrs.  Boyer  who  broached 
the  subject  again.  She  had  had  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  Harmony,  sitting  on  a  stool,  had  mended 
the  rent  so  that  it  could  hardly  be  seen.  Mrs. 
Boyer,  softened  by  the  tea  and  by  the  proximity 
of  Harmony's  lovely  head  bent  over  her  task, 
grew  slightly  more  expansive. 

"I  ought  to  tell  you  something,  Miss  Wells," 
she  said.  "You  remember  my  other  visit?" 

"Perfectly."    Harmony  bent  still  lower. 

"I  did  you  an  injustice  at  that  time.    I've 
317 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

been  sorry  ever  since.  I  thought  that  there 
was  no  Dr.  Gates.  I  'ni  sorry,  but  I  'm  not 
going  to  deny  it.  People  do  things  in  this 
wicked  city  that  they  wrould  n't  do  at  home. 
I  confess  I  misjudged  Peter  Byrne.  You 
can  give  him  my  apologies,  since  he  won't  see 
me." 

"But  he  isn't  here  or  of  course  he'd  see 
you." 

"Then,"  demanded  Mrs.  Boyer  grimly,  "if 
Peter  Byrne  is  not  here,  who  has  been  smoking 
cigarettes  in  this  room?  There  is  one  still  burn- 
ing in  that  stove!" 

Harmony's  hand  was  forced.  She  was  white 
as  she  cut  the  brown-silk  thread  and  rose  to  her 
feet. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  I'd  better  go  back 
a  few  weeks,  Mrs.  Boyer,  and  tell  you  a  story, 
if  you  have  time  to  listen." 

"If  it  is  disagreeable - 

"Not  at  all.  It  is  about  Peter  Byrne  and  my- 
self, and  —  some  others.  It  is  really  about 
Peter.  Mrs.  Boyer,  will  you  come  very  quietly 
across  the  hall?" 

Mrs.  Boyer,  expecting  Heaven  knows  what, 
rose  with  celerity.  Harmony  led  the  way  to 
Jimmy's  door  and  opened  it.  He  was  still 
asleep,  a  wasted  small  figure  on  the  narrow 
bed.  Beside  him  the  mice  frolicked  in  their 

218 


cage,  the  sentry  kept  guard  over  Peter's  shame- 
less letters  from  the  Tyrol,  the  strawberry 
babies  wriggled  in  their  cotton. 

"We  are  not  going  to  have  him  very  long," 
said  Harmony  softly.  "Peter  is  making  him 
happy  for  a  little  while." 

Back  in  the  salon  of  Maria  Theresa  she  told 
the  whole  story.  Mrs.  Boyer  found  it  very  affect- 
ing. Harmony  sat  beside  her  on  a  stool  and  she 
kept  her  hand  on  the  girl's  shoulder.  When 
the  narrative  reached  Anna's  going  away,  how- 
ever, she  took  it  away.  From  that  point  on  she 
sat  uncompromisingly  rigid  and  listened. 

"Then  you  mean  to  say,"  she  exploded  wrhen 
Harmony  had  finished,  "that  you  intend  to  stay 
on  here,  just  the  two  of  you?  " 

"And   Jimmy." 

"Bah!   What  has  the  child  to  do  with  it?" 

"  We  will  find  some  one  to  take  Anna's  place.  '* 

"1  doubt  it.    And  until  you  do?" 

"There  is  nothing  wicked  in  what  we  are 
doing.  Don't  you  see,  Mrs.  Boyer,  I  can't 
leave  the  boy." 

"Since  Peter  is  so  altruistic,  let  him  hire  a 
nurse." 

Bad  as  things  were,  Harmony  smiled. 

"A  nurse!"  she  said.  "Why,  do  you  realize 
that  he  is  keeping  three  people  now  on  what  is 
starvation  for  one?  " 

219 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Then  he  's  a  fool!"  Mrs.  Boyer  rose  in  maj- 
esty. "I  'm  not  going  to  leave  you  here." 

"I'm  sorry.    You  must  see - 

"I  see  nothing  but  a  girl  deliberately  putting 
herself  in  a  compromising  position  and  worse." 

"Mrs.  Boyer!" 

"Get  your  things  on.  I  guess  Dr.  Boyer  and 
I  can  look  after  you  until  we  can  send  you  home." 

"I  am  not  going  home  —  yet,"  said  poor 
Harmony,  biting  her  lip  to  steady  it. 

Back  and  forth  waged  the  battle,  Mrs.  Boyer 
assailing,  Harmony  offering  little  defense  but 
standing  firm  on  her  refusal  to  go  as  long  as 
Peter  would  let  her  remain. 

"It  means  so  much  to  me,"  she  ventured, 
goaded.  "And  I  earn  my  lodging  and  board. 
I  work  hard  and  —  I  make  him  comfortable. 
It  costs  him  very  little  and  I  give  him  something 
in  exchange.  All  men  are  not  alike.  If  the  sort 
you  have  known  are  —  are  different  - 

This  was  unfortunate.  Mrs.  Boyer  stiffened. 
She  ceased  offensive  tactics,  and  retired  grimly 
into  the  dignity  of  her  high  calling  of  virtuous 
wife  and  mother.  She  washed  her  hands  of 
Harmony  and  Peter.  She  tied  on  her  veil  with 
shaking  hands,  and  prepared  to  leave  Harmony 
to  her  fate. 

"Give  me  your  mother's  address,"  she  de- 
manded. 

220 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Certainly  not." 

"You  absolutely  refuse  to  save  yourself?" 

"From  what?  From  Peter?  There  are  many 
worse  people  than  Peter  to  save  myself  from, 
Mrs.  Boyer  —  uncharitable  people,  and  —  and 
cruel  people." 

Mrs.   Boyer  shrugged  her  plump  shoulders. 

"Meaning  me!"  she  retorted.  "My  dear 
child,  people  are  always  cruel  who  try  to  save  us 
from  ourselves." 

Unluckily  for  Harmony,  one  of  Anna's  spe- 
cious arguments  must  pop  into  her  head  at  that 
instant  and  demand  expression. 

"People  are  living  their  own  lives  these  days, 
Mrs.  Boyer;  old  standards  have  gone.  It  is 
what  one's  conscience  condemns  that  is  wrong, 
isn't  it?  Not  merely  breaking  laws  that  were 
made  to  fit  the  average,  not  the  exception." 

Anna !    Anna ! 

Mrs.  Boyer  flung  up  her  hands. 

"You  are  impossible!"  she  snapped.  "After 
all,  I  believe  it  is  Peter  who  needs  protection! 
I  shall  speak  to  him." 

She  started  down  the  staircase,  but  turned 
for  a  parting  volley. 

"And  just  a  word  of  advice:  Perhaps  the  old 
standards  have  gone.  But  if  you  really  expect  to 
find  a  respectable  woman  to  chaperon  you, 
keep  your  vi^ws  to  yourself." 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony,  a  bruised  and  wounded  thing,  crept 
into  Jimmy's  room  and  sank  on  her  knees  beside 
the  bed.  One  small  hand  lay  on  the  coverlet; 
she  dared  not  touch  it  for  fear  of  waking  him 
—  but  she  laid  her  cheek  close  to  it  for  comforL 
When  Peter  came  in,  much  later,  he  found  the 
boy  wide  awake  and  Harmony  asleep,  a  crum- 
pled heap  beside  the  bed. 

"I  think  she's  been  crying,"  Jimmy  whispered. 
"She  s  been  sobbing  in  her  sleep.  And  strike 
a  match,  Peter;  there  may  be  more  :?i;ce." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MRS.  BOYER,  bursting  with  indignation, 
went  to  the  Doctors'  Club.  It  was  typi- 
cal of  the  way  things  were  going  with  Peter 
that  Dr.  Boyer  was  not  there,  and  that  the  only 
woman  in  the  clubrooms  should  be  Dr.  Jennings. 
Young  McLean  was  in  the  reading  room,  eating 
his  heart  out  with  jealousy  of  Peter,  vacillating 
between  the  desire  to  see  Harmony  that  night 
and  fear  lest  Peter  forbid  him  the  house  per- 
manently if  he  made  the  attempt.  He  had 
found  a  picture  of  the  Fraulein  Engel,  from  the 
opera,  in  a  magazine,  and  was  sitting  with  it 
open  before  him.  Very  deeply  and  really  in 
love  was  McLean  that  afternoon,  and  the 
Fraulein  Engel  and  Harmony  were  not  unlike. 
The  double  doors  between  the  reading  room 
and  the  reception  room  adjoining  were  open. 
McLean,  lost  in  a  rosy  future  in  which  he  and 
Harmony  sat  together  for  indefinite  periods, 
with  no  Peter  to  scowl  over  his  books  at  them, 
a  future  in  which  life  was  one  long  piano-violin 
duo,  with  the  candles  in  the  chandelier  going 
out  one  by  one,  leaving  them  at  last  alone  in 
scented  darkness  together  —  McLean  heard 

223 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

nothing  until  the  mention  of  the  Siebenstern- 
strasse  roused  him. 

After  that  he  listened.  He  heard  that  Dr. 
Jennings  was  contemplating  taking  Anna's  place 
at  the  lodge,  and  he  comprehended  after  a  mo- 
ment that  Anna  was  already  gone.  Even  then 
the  significance  of  the  situation  was  a  little  tune 
in  dawning  on  him.  When  it  did,  however,  he 
rose  with  a  stifled  oath. 

Mrs.  Boyer  was  speaking. 

"It  is  exactly  as  I  tell  you,"  she  was  saying. 
"If  Peter  Byrne  is  trying  to  protect  her  reputa- 
tion he  is  late  doing  it.  Personally  I  have  been 
there  twice.  I  never  saw  Anna  Gates.  And  she 
is  registered  here  at  the  club  as  living  in  the  Pen- 
sion Schwarz.  Whatever  the  facts  may  be,  one 
thing  remains,  she  is  not  there  now." 

McLean  waited  to  hear  no  more.  He  was 
beside  himself  with  rage.  He  found  a  "  comfort- 
able" at  the  curb.  The  driver  was  asleep  inside 
the  carriage.  McLean  dragged  him  out  by  the 
shoulder  and  shouted  an  address  to  him.  The 
cab  bumped  along  over  the  rough  streets  to  an 
accompaniment  of  protests  from  its  frantic 
passenger. 

The  boy  was  white-lipped  with  wrath  and 
fear.  Peter's  silence  that  afternoon  as  to  the 
state  of  affairs  loomed  large  and  significant. 
He  had  thought  once  or  twice  that  Peter  was 

224 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

in  love  with  Harmony;  he  knew  it  now  in  the 
clearer  vision  of  the  moment.  He  recalled  things 
that  maddened  him :  the  dozen  intimacies  of  the 
little  menage,  the  caress  in  Peter's  voice  when 
he  spoke  to  the  girl,  Peter's  steady  eyes  in  the 
semi-gloom  of  the  salon  while  Harmony  played. 

At  a  corner  they  must  pause  for  the  inevitable 
regiment.  McLean  cursed,  bending  out  to  see 
how  long  the  delay  would  be.  Peter  had  been 
gone  for  half  an  hour,  perhaps,  but  Peter  would 
walk.  If  he  could  only  see  the  girl  first,  talk  to 
her,  tell  her  what  she  would  be  doing  by  re- 
maining — 

He  was  there  at  last,  flinging  across  the  court- 
yard like  a  madman.  Peter  was  already  there; 
his  footprints  were  fresh  in  the  slush  of  the 
path.  The  house  door  was  closed  but  not  locked. 
McLean  ran  up  the  stairs.  It  was  barely  twi- 
light outside,  but  the  staircase  well  was  dark. 
At  the  upper  landing  he  was  compelled  to  fumble 
for  the  bell. 

Peter  admitted  him.  The  corridor  was  un- 
lighted,  but  from  the  salon  came  a  glow  of  lamp- 
light. McLean,  out  of  breath  and  furious,  faced 
Peter. 

"I  want  to  see  Harmony,"  he  said  without 
preface. 

Peter  eyed  him.  He  knew  what  had  happened, 
had  expected  it  when  the  bell  rang,  had  antici- 

225 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

pated  it  when  Harmony  told  him  of  Mrs.  Boyer's 
visit.  In  the  second  between  the  peal  of  the 
bell  and  his  opening  the  door  he  had  decided 
what  to  do. 

"Come  in." 

McLean  stepped  inside.  He  was  smaller 
than  Peter,  not  so  much  shorter  as  slenderer. 
Even  Peter  winced  before  the  looV  in  his  eyes. 

"Where  is  she?" 

"In  the  kitchen,  I  think.  Come  into  the 
salon." 

McLean  flung  off  his  coat.  Peter  closed  the 
door  behind  him  and  stood  just  inside.  He  had 
his  pipe  as  usual.  "I  came  to  see  her,  not  you, 
Byrne." 

"So  I  gather.  I'll  let  you  see  her,  of  course, 
but  don't  you  want  to  see  me  first?" 

"I  want  to  take  her  away  from  here." 

"Why?  Are  you  better  able  to  care  for  her 
than  I  am?" 

McLean  stood  rigid.  He  had  thrust  his 
clenched  hands  into  his  pockets. 

"You're  a  scoundrel,  Byrne,"  he  said  steadily. 
"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  this  this  afternoon?" 

"Because  I  knew  if  I  did  you'd  do  just  what 
you  are  doing." 

"Are  you  going  to  keep  her  here?" 

Peter  changed  color  at  the  thrust,  but  he  kept 
himself  in  hand. 

226 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I'm  not  keeping  her  here,"  he  said  patiently. 
"I'm  doing  the  best  I  can  under  the  circum- 
stances." 

'Then  your  best  is  pretty  bad." 

"Perhaps.  If  you  would  try  to  remember  the 
circumstances,  McLean, —  that  the  girl  has  no 
place  else  to  go,  practically  no  money,  and  that 
I- 

"I  remember  one  circumstance,  that  you  are 
living  here  alone  with  her  and  that  you  're 
crazy  in  love  with  her." 

"That  has  nothing  to  do  with  you.  As  long 
as  I  treat  her  - 

"Bah!" 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  let  me  finish 
what  I  am  trying  to  say?  She's  safe  with  me. 
When  I  say  that  I  mean  it.  She  will  not  go  away 
from  here  with  you  or  with  any  one  else  if  I  can 
prevent  it.  And  if  you  care  enough  about  her  to 
try  to  keep  her  happy  you'll  not  let  her  know 
you  have  been  here.  I  Ve  got  a  woman  coming  to 
take  Anna's  place.  That  ought  to  satisfy  you." 

"Dr.  Jennings?" 

"Yes." 

"She'll  not  come.  Mrs.  Boyer  has  been  talk- 
ing to  her.  Inside  of  an  hour  the  whole  club  will 
have  it  —  every  American  in  Vienna  will  know 
about  it  in  a  day  or  so.  I  tell  you,  Byrne,  you're 
doing  an  awful  thing." 

227 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Peter  drew  a  long  breath.  He  had  had  his 
bad  half -hour  before  McLean  came;  had  had  to 
stand  by,  wordless,  and  see  Harmony  trying  to 
smile,  see  her  dragging  about,  languid  and  white, 
see  her  tragic  attempts  to  greet  him  on  the  old 
familiar  footing.  Through  it  all  he  had  been  sus- 
tained by  the  thought  that  a  day  or  two  days 
would  see  the  old  footing  reestablished,  another 
woman  in  the  house,  life  again  worth  the  living 
and  Harmony  smiling  up  frankly  into  his  eyes. 
Now  this  hope  had  departed. 

''You  can't  keep  me  from   seeing  her,  you 
know,"   McLean  persisted.     "  I  've  got  to  put 
this  thing  to  her.     She's  got  to  choose." 
"What   alternative   have   you   to   suggest?" 
"I'd  marry  her  if  she'd  have  me." 
After  all  Peter  had  expected  that.    And,  if 
she  cared  for  the  boy  would  n't  that  be  best  for 
her?    What  had  he  to  offer  against  that?    He 
could  n't  marry.   He  could  only  offer  her  shelter, 
against  everything  else.    Even  then  he  did  not 
dislike  McLean.    He  was  a  man,  every  slender 
inch  of  him,  this  boy  musician.     Peter's  heart 
sank,  but  he  put  down  his  pipe  and  turned  to 
the  door. 

"I  '11  call  her,"  he  said.  "But,  since  this  con- 
cerns me  very  vitally,  I  should  like  to  be  here 
while  you  put  the  thing  to  her.  After  that  if 
you  like  — " 

228 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

He  called  Harmony.  She  had  given  Jimmy 
,iis  supper  and  was  carrying  out  a  tray  that 
seemed  hardly  touched. 

"He  won't  eat  to-night,"  she  said  miserably. 
"Peter,  if  he  steps  eating,  what  can  we  do? 
He  is  so  weak!" 

Peter,  took  the  tray  from  her  gently. 

"Harry  dear,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  come 
into  the  salon.  Some  one  wishes  to  speak  to  you." 

"To  me?" 

'Yes.  Harry,  do  you  remember  that  evening 
in  the  kitchen  when  -  Do  you  recall  what  I 
promised?" 

"Yes,  Peter." 

'You  are  sure  you  know  what  I  mean?" 

"Yes." 

:'That'?  all  right,  then.  McLean  wants  to 
see  you." 

She  hesitated,  looking  up  at  him. 

"McLean?    You  look  so  grave,  Peter.    What 

•  '  L   *)    " 

is  it: 

"He  will  tell  you.  Nothing  alarming." 
Peter  gave  McLean  a  minute  alone  .ifter  'Jl, 
while  he  carried  the  tray  to  the  kitchen.  He 
had  no  desire  to  play  watchdog  over  the  girl, 
he  told  himself  savagely;  only  to  keep  himself 
straight  with  her  and  to  save  her  from  McLean's 
impetuosity.  He  even  waited  in  the  kitchen  to 
fill  and  light  his  pipe. 

229, 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

McLean  had  worked  himself  into  a  very  fair 
passion.  He  was  intense,  almost  theatrical, 
as  he  stood  with  folded  arms  waiting  for  Har- 
mony. So  entirely  did  the  girl  fill  his  existence 
that  he  forgot,  or  did  not  care  to  remember, 
how  short  a  time  he  had  known  her.  As  Har- 
mony she  dominated  his  life  and  his  thoughts; 
as  Harmony  he  addressed  her  when,  rather 
startled,  she  entered  the  salon  and  stood  just 
inside  the  closed  door. 

"Peter  said  you  wanted  to  speak  to  me." 

McLean  groaned.  "Peter!"  he  said.  "It  is 
always  Peter.  Look  here,  Harmony,  you  cannot 
stay  here." 

"It  is  only  for  a  few  hours.  To-morrow  some 
one  is  coming.  And,  anyhow,  Peter  is  going  to 
Semmering.  We  know  it  is  unusual,  but  what 
can  we  do?" 

"Unusual!  It's  —  it's  damnable.  It's  the 
appearance  of  the  thing,  don't  you  see  that?" 

"I  think  it  is  rather  silly  to  talk  of  appearance 
when  there  is  no  one  to  care.  And  how  can  I 
leave?  Jimmy  needs  me  all  the  time  - 

"That's  another  idiocy  of  Peter's.  What  does 
he  mean  by  putting  you  in  this  position?" 

"I  am  one  of  Peter's  idiocies." 

Peter  entered  on  that.  He  took  in  the  situa- 
tion with  a  glance,  and  Harmony  turned  to 
him;  but  if  she  had  expected  Peter  to  support 

230 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

her,  she  was  disappointed.  Whatever  decision 
she  was  to  make  must  be  her  own,  in  Peter's 
troubled  mind.  He  crossed  the  room  and  stood 
at  one  of  the  windows,  looking  out,  a  passive 
participant  in  the  scene. 

The  day  had  been  a  trying  one  for  Harmony. 
What  she  chose  to  consider  Peter's  defection 
was  a  fresh  stab.  She  glanced  from  McLean, 
flushed  and  excited,  to  Peter's  impassive  back. 
Then  she  sat  down,  rather  limp,  and  threw  out 
her  hands  helplessly. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  she  demanded.  "Every 
one  comes  with  cruel  things  to  say,  but  no  one 
tells  me  what  to  do." 

Peter  turned  away  from  the  window. 

"You  can  leave  here,"  ventured  McLean. 
"That's  the  first  thing.  After  that  —  " 

"Yes,  and  after  that,  what?" 

McLean  glanced  at  Peter.  Then  he  took  a 
step  toward  the  girl. 

"You  could  marry  me,  Harmony,"  he  said 
unsteadily.  "I  hadn't  expected  to  tell  you  so 
soon,  or  before  a  third  person."  He  faltered 
before  Harmony's  eyes,  full  of  bewilderment. 
"I'd  be  very  happy  if  you  —  if  you  could  see 
it  that  way.  I  care  a  great  deal,  you  see." 

It  seemed  hours  to  Peter  before  she  made  any 
reply,  and  that  her  voice  came  from  miles  away. 

"Is   it   really   as  bad   as   that?"   she   asked, 
231 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Have  I  made  such  a  mess  of  things  that  some 
one,  either  you  or  Peter,  must  marry  me  to 
straighten  things  out?  I  don't  want  to  marry 
any  one.  Do  I  have  to?" 

"Certainly  you  don't  have  to,"  said  Peter. 
There  was  relief  in  his  voice,  relief  and  also 
something  of  exultation.  "McLean,  you  mean 
well,  but  marriage  is  n't  the  solution.  We  were 
getting  along  all  right  until  our  friends  stepped 
in.  Let  Mrs.  Boyer  howl  all  over  the  colony; 
there  will  be  one  sensible  woman  somewhere 
to  come  and  be  comfortable  here  with  us.  In 
the  interval  we  '11  manage,  unless  Harmony  is 
afraid.  In  that  case  - 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

The  two  men  exchanged  glances,  McLean 
helpless,  Peter  triumphant. 

"I  do  not  care  what  Mrs.  Boyer  says,  at 
least  not  much.  And  I  am  not  afraid  of  anything 
else  at  all." 

McLean  picked  up  his  overcoat. 

"At  least,"  he  appealed  to  Peter,  "you'll 
come  over  to  my  place?" 

"No!"  said  Peter. 

McLean  made  a  final  appeal  to  Harmony. 

"If  this  gets  out,"  he  said,  "you  are  going 
to  regret  it  all  your  life." 

"I  shall  have  nothing  to  regret,"  she  retorted 
proudly. 

232 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Had  Peter  not  been  there  McLean  would  have 
made  a  better  case,  would  have  pleaded  with 
her,  would  have  made  less  of  a  situation  that 
roused  her  resentment  and  more  of  his  love  for 
her.  He  was  very  [hard  hit,  very  young.  He 
was  almost  hysterical  with  rage  and  helpless- 
ness; he  wanted  to  slap  her,  to  take  her  in  his 
arms.  He  writhed  under  the  restraint  of  Peter's 
steady  eyes. 

He  got  to  the  door  and  turned,  furious. 

"Then  it's  up  to  you,"  he  flung  at  Peter. 

'You're  old  enough  to  know  better;  she  is  n't. 

And  don't  look  so  damned  superior.    You  're 

human,  like  the  rest  of  us.    And  if  any  harm 

comes  to  her  - 

Here  unexpectedly  Peter  held  out  his  hand, 
and  after  a  sheepish  moment  McLean  took  it. 

"Good-night,  old  man,"  said  Peter.  "And 
—  don't  be  an  ass." 

As  was  Peter's  way,  the  words  meant  little, 
the  tone  much.  McLean  knew  what  in  his  heart 
he  had  known  all  along  —  that  the  girl  was 
safe  enough;  that  all  that  was  to  fear  was  the 
gossip  of  scandal-lovers.  He  took  Peter's  hand, 
and  then  going  to  Harmony  stood  before  he; 
very  erect. 

"I  suppose  I've  said  too  much;  I  always  do," 
he  said  contritely.  "But  you  know  the  reason. 
Don't  forget  the  reason,  will  you?" 

233 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I  am  only  sorry." 

He  beiit  over  and  kissed  her  hand  lingeringly. 
It  was  a  tragic  moment  for  him,  poor  lad!  He 
turned  and  went  blindly  out  the  door  and  down 
the  dark  stone  staircase.  It  was  rather  anti- 
climax, after  all  that,  to  lr<  7e  Peter  discover  h2 
had  gone  without  his  hat  and  toss  it  down  to 
him  a  flight  below. 

All  the  frankness  had  gone  out  of  the  relation- 
ship between  Harmony  and  Peter.  They  made 
painful  efforts  at  ease,  talked  during  the  meal 
-of  careful  abstractions,  such  as  Jimmy,  and 
Peter's  proposed  trip  to  Semmering,  avoided 
each  other's  eyes,  ate  little  or  nothing.  Once 
when  Harmony  passed  Peter  his  coffee-cup  their 
fingers  touched,  and  between  them  they  dropped 
the  cup.  Harmony  was  flushed  and  pallid  by 
turns,  Peter  wretched  and  silent. 

Out  of  the  darkness  came  one  ray  of  light. 
Stewart  had  wired  from  Semmering,  urging 
Peter  to  come.  He  would  be  away  for  two  days. 
In  two  days  much  might  happen;  Dr.  Jennings 
might  come  or  some  one  else.  In  two  days 
some  of  the  restraint  would  have  worn  off. 
Things  would  never  be  the  same,  but  they 
would  be  forty-eight  hours  better. 

Peter  spent  the  early  part  of  the  evening 
"with  Jimmy,  reading  aloud  to  him.  After  the 
child  had  dropped  to  sleep  he  packed  a  valise 

234 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

for  the  next  day's  journey  and  counted  out  into 
an  envelope  half  of  the  money  he  had  with 
him.  This  he  labeled  "Household  Expenses'* 
and  set  it  up  on  his  table,  leaning  against  his 
collar-box.  There  was  no  sign  of  Harmony  about. 
The  salon  was  dark  except  for  the  study  lamp 
turned  down. 

Peter  was  restless.  He  put  on  his  shabby 
dressing-gown  and  worn  slippers  and  wandered 
about.  The  Portier  had  brought  coal  to  the 
landing;  Peter  carried  it  in.  He  inspected  the 
medicine  bottles  on  Jimmy's  stand  and  wrote 
full  directions  for  every  emergency  he  coulc. 
imagine.  Then,  finding  it  still  only  nine  o'clock, 
he  turned  up  the  lamp  in  the  salon  and  wrote 
an  exciting  letter  from  Jimmy's  father,  in  which 
a  lost  lamb,  wandering  on  the  mountain-side, 
had  been  picked  up  by  an  avalanche  and  car- 
ried down  into  the  fold  and  the  arms  of  the 
shepherd.  And  because  he  stood  so  in  loco 
parentis,  and  because  it  seemed  so  inevitable 
that  before  long  Jimmy  would  be  in  the  arms  of 
the  Shepherd,  and,  of  course,  because  it  had 
been  a  trying  day  all  through,  Peter's  lips  were 
none  too  steady  as  he  folded  up  the  letter. 

The  fire  was  dead  in  the  stove;  Peter  put  out 
the  salon  lamp  and  closed  the  shutters.  In  the 
warm  darkness  he  put  out  his  hand  to  feel  his 
way  through  the  room.  It  touched  a  little 

235 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

sweater  coat  of  Harmony's,  hanging  over  the 
back  of  a  chair.  Peter  picked  it  up  in  a  very 
passion  of  tenderness  and  held  it  to  him. 

"Little  girl!"  he  choked.  "My  little  girl! 
God  help  me!" 

He  was  rather  ashamed,  considerably  startled. 
It  alarmed  him  to  find  that  the  mere  unexpected 
touch  of  a  familiar  garment  could  rouse  such  a 
storm  in  him.  It  made  him  pause.  He  put  down 
the  coat  and  pulled  himself  up  sharply.  McLean 
was  right;  he  was  only  human  stuff,  very  poor 
human  stuff.  He  put  the  little  coat  down  hastily, 
only  to  lift  it  again  gently  to  his  lips. 

"Good-night,  dear,"  he  whispered.  "Good' 
night,  Harmony." 

Frau  Schwarz  had  had  two  visitors  between 
the  hours  of  coffee  and  supper  that  day.  The 
reason  of  their  call  proved  to  be  neither  rooms 
nor  pension.  They  came  to  make  inquiries. 

The  Frau  Schwarz  made  this  out  at  last,  and 
sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  in  the  room  that 
had  once  been  Peter's  and  that  still  lacked  an 
occupant. 

Mrs.  Boyer  had  no  German;  Dr.  Jennings 
very  little  and  that  chiefly  medical.  There  is, 
however,  a  sort  of  code  that  answers  instead  of 
language  frequently,  when  two  or  three  women 
of  later  middle  life  are  gathered  together,  a 

236 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

code  born  of  mutual  understanding,  mutual 
disillusion,  mutual  distrust,  a  language  of  out- 
spread hands,  raised  eyebrows,  portentous  shak- 
ings of  the  head.  Frau  Schwarz,  on  the  edge  of 
Peter's  tub-shaped  bed,  needed  no  English 
to  convey  the  fact  that  Peter  was  a  bad  lot. 
Not  that  she  resorted  only  to  the  sign  language. 

''The  women  were  also  wicked,"  she  said. 
"Of  a  man  what  does  one  expect?  But  of  a 
woman !  And  the  younger  one  looked  —  Herr 
Gott!  She  had  the  eyes  of  a  saint!  The  little 
Georgiev  was  mad  for  her.  When  the  three 
of  them  left,  disgraced,  as  one  may  say,  he 
came  to  me,  he  threatened  me.  The  Herr 
Schwarz,  God  rest  his  soul,  was  a  violent  man, 
but  never  spoke  he  so  to  me!" 

"She  says,"  interpreted  Dr.  Jennings,  "that 
they  were  a  bad  lot  —  that  the  younger  one 
made  eyes  at  the  Herr  Schwarz!" 

Mrs.  Boyer  drew  her  ancient  sables  about 
her  and  put  a  tremulous  hand  on  the  other 
woman's  arm. 

"What  an  escape  for  you!"  she  said.  "If 
you  had  gone  there  to  live  and  then  found  the 
establishment  —  queer!" 

From  the  kitchen  of  the  pension,  Olga  was 
listening,  an  ear  to  the  door.  Behind  her,  also 
listening,  but  less  advantageously,  was  Ka- 
trina. 

237 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"American  ladies!"  said  Olga.  ''Two,  old 
and  fat." 

"More  hot  water!"  growled  Katri^a.  "Why 
do  not  the  Americans  stay  in  their  own  coun- 
try, where  the  water,  I  have  learned,  comes  hot 
from  the  earth." 

Olga,  bending  forward,  opened  the  door  a 
crack  wider. 

"Sh!  They  do  not  come  for  rooms.  They 
inquire  for  the  Herr  Doktor  Byrne  and  the 
others!" 

"No!" 

"Of  a  certainty.'5 

"Then  let  me  to  the  door!" 

"A  moment.  She  tells  them  everything  and 
more.  She  says  —  how  she  is  wicked,  Katrina! 
She  says  the  Fraulein  Harmony  was  not  good, 
that  she  sent  them  all  away.  Here,  take  the 
door!" 

Thus  it  happened  that  Dr.  Jennings  and 
Mrs.  Boyer,  having  shaken  off  the  dust  of  a 
pension  that  had  once  harbored  three  male- 
factors, and  having  retired  Peter  and  Anna  and 
Harmony  into  the  limbo  of  things  best  for- 
gotten or  ignored,  found  themselves,  at  the 
-corner,  confronted  by  a  slovenly  girl  in  heelless 
slippers  and  wearing  a  knitted  shawl  over  her 
^ad. 

"The  Frau  Schwarz  is  wrong,"  cried  Olga 
238 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

passionately  in  Vienna  dialect.  "They  were 
good,  all  of  them!" 

"What  in  the  world— " 

"And,  please,  tell  me  where  lives  the  Frau- 
lein  Harmony.  The  Herr  Georgiev  eats  not  nor 
sleeps  that  he  cannot  find  her." 

Dr.  Jennings  was  puzzled. 

"She  wishes  to  know  where  the  girl  lives,'* 
she  interpreted  to  Mrs.  Boyer.  "A  man  wishes 
to  know." 

"Naturally!"  said  Mrs.  Boyer.  "Well,  don't 
tell  her." 

Olga  gathered  from  the  tone  rather  than  the 
words  that  she  was  not  to  be  told.  She  burst 
into  a  despairing  appeal  in  which  the  Herr 
Georgiev,  Peter,  a  necktie  Peter  had  forgotten, 
open  windows,  and  hot  water  were  inextricably 
confused.  Dr.  Jennings  listened,  then  waved 
her  back  with  a  gesture. 

"She  says,"  she  interpreted  as  they  walked 
on,  "that  Dr.  Peter  —  by  which  I  suppose  she 
means  Dr.  Byrne  -  -  has  left  a  necktie,  and  that 
she'll  be  in  hot  water  if  she  does  not  return  it." 

Mrs.  Boyer  sniffed. 

"In  love  with  him,  probably,  like  the  others!" 
she  said. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

PETER  went  to  Semmering  the  next  morn- 
ing, tiptoeing  out  very  early  and  without 
breakfast.  He  went  in  to  cover  Jimmy,  lying 
diagonally  across  his  small  bed  amid  a  riot  of 
tossed  blankets.  The  communicating  door  into 
Harmony's  room  was  open.  Peter  kept  his  eyes 
carefully  from  it,  but  his  ears  were  less  under 
control.  He  could  hear  her  soft  breathing. 
There  were  days  coming  when  Peter  would 
stand  where  he  stood  then  and  listen,  and  find 
only  silence. 

He  tore  himself  away  at  last,  closing  the  outer 
door  carefully  behind  him  and  lighting  a  match 
to  find  his  way  down  the  staircase.  The  Portier 
was  not  awake.  Peter  had  to  rouse  him,  and  to 
stand  by  while  he  donned  the  trousers  which  he 
deemed  necessary  to  the  dignity  of  his  position 
before  he  opened  the  street  door. 

Reluctant  as  he  had  been  to  go,  the  change 
was  good  for  Peter.  The  dawn  grew  rosy, 
promised  sunshine,  fulfilled  its  promise.  The 
hurrying  crowds  at  the  depot  interested  him: 
he  enjoyed  his  coffee,  taken  from  a  bare  table 
in  the  station.  The  horizontal  morning  sun- 

240 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

light,  shining  in  through  marvelously  clean 
windows,  warmed  the  marble  of  the  floor,  made 
black  shadows  beside  the  heaps  of  hand  luggage 
everywhere,  turned  into  gold  the  hair  of  a  tod- 
dling baby  venturing  on  a  tour  of  discovery. 
The  same  morning  light,  alas!  revealed  to 
Peter  a  break  across  the  toe  of  one  of  his  shoes. 
Peter  sighed,  then  smiled.  The  baby  was 
catching  at  the  bits  of  dust  that  floated  in  the 
sunshine. 

Suddenly  a  great  wave  of  happiness  over- 
whelmed Peter.  It  was  a  passing  thing,  born 
cf  nothing,  but  for  the  instant  that  it  lasted 
Peter  was  a  king.  Everything  was  well.  The 
world  was  his  oyster.  Life  was  his,  to  make  it 
what  he  would  —  youth  and  hope  and  joy. 
Under  the  beatific  influence  he  expanded,  grew, 
almost  shone.  Youth  and  hope  and  joy --that 
cometh  in  the  morning. 

The  ecstasy  passed  away,  but  without  reac- 
tion. Peter  no  longer  shone;  he  still  glowed. 
He  picked  up  the  golden-haired  baby  and 
hugged  it.  He  hunted  out  a  beggar  he  had 
passed  and  gave  him  five  Hellers.  He  helped 
a  suspicious  old  lady  with  an  oilcloth-covered 
bundle;  he  called  the  guard  on  the  train  "son" 
and  forced  a  grin  out  of  that  dignitary. 

Peter  traveled  third-class,  which  was  quite 
comfortable,  and  no  bother  about  "Nicht 

241 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Rauchen"  signs.  His  unreasonable  cheerful- 
ness persisted  as  far  as  Gloggnitz.  There,  with 
the  increasing  ruggedness  of  the  scenery  and 
his  first  view  of  the  Raxalpe,  came  recollection 
of  the  urgency  of  Stewart's  last  message,  of 
Marie  Jedlicka,  of  the  sordid  little  tragedy 
that  awaited  him  at  the  end  of  his  journey. 

Peter  sobered.  Life  was  rather  a  mess,  after 
all,  he  reflected.  Love  was  a  blessing,  but  it 
was  also  a  curse.  After  that  he  sat  back  in  his 
corner  and  let  the  mountain  scenery  take  care 
of  itself,  while  he  recalled  the  look  he  had 
surprised  once  or  twice  in  Marie's  eyes  when 
she  looked  at  Stewart.  It  was  sad,  pitiful. 
Marie  was  a  clever  little  thing.  If  only  she  'd 
had  a  chance !  -  Why  was  n't  he  rich  enough 
to  help  the  ones  who  needed  help.  Marie 
could  start  again  in  America,  with  no  one  the 
wiser,  and  make  her  way. 

"Smart  as  the  devil,  these  Austrian  girls!" 
Peter  reflected.  "Poor  little  guttersnipe!" 

The  weather  was  beautiful.  The  sleet  of  the 
previous  day  in  Vienna  had  been  a  deep  snow- 
fall on  the  mountains.  The  Schwarza  was 
frozen,  the  castle  of  Liechtenstein  was  gray 
against  a  white  world.  A  little  pilgrimage  church 
far  below  seemed  snowed  in  against  the  faith- 
ful. The  third-class  compartment  filled  with 
noisy  skiing  parties.  The  old  woman  opened 

242 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

her  oilcloth  bundle,  and  taking  a  cat  out  of  a 
box  inside  fed  it  a  sausage. 

Up  and  up,  past  the  Weinzettelwand  and 
the  Station  Breitenstein,  across  the  highest 
viaduct,  the  Kalte  Rinne,  and  so  at  last  to 
Semmering. 

The  glow  had  died  at  last  for  Peter.  He  did 
not  like  his  errand,  was  very  vague,  indeed,  as 
to  just  what  that  errand  might  be.  He  was 
stiff  and  rather  cold.  Also  he  thought  the  cat 
might  stifle  in  the  oilcloth,  but  the  old  woman 
too  clearly  distrusted  him  to  make  it  possible 
to  interfere.  Anyhow,  he  did  not  know  the 
German  for  either  cat  or  oilcloth. 

He  had  wired  Stewart;  but  the  latter  was  not 
at  the  station.  This  made  him  vaguely  uneasy, 
he  hardly  knew  why.  He  did  not  know  Stewart 
well  enough  to  know  whether  he  was  punctilious 
in  such  matters  or  not:  as  a  matter  of  fact  he 
hardly  knew  him  at  all.  It  was  because  he  had 
appealed  to  him  that  Peter  was  there,  it  being 
only  necessary  to  Peter  to  be  needed,  and  he  was 
anywhere. 

The  Pension  Waldheim  was  well  up  the 
mountains.  He  shouldered  his  valise  and  started 
up  —  first  long  flights  of  steps  through  the  pines, 
then  a  steep  road.  Peter  climbed  easily.  Here 
and  there  he  met  groups  coming  down,  men 
that  he  thought  probably  American,  pretty 

243 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

women  in  "tarns"  and  sweaters.  He  watched 
for  Marie,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  her. 

He  was  half  an  hour,  perhaps,  in  reaching 
the  Waldheim.  As  he  turned  in  at  the  gate  he 
noticed  a  sledge,  with  a  dozen  people  following 
it,  coming  toward  him.  It  was  a  singularly  silent 
party.  Peter,  with  his  hand  on  the  door-knocker, 
watched  its  approach  with  some  curiosity. 

It  stopped,  and  the  men  who  had  been  fol- 
lowing closed  up  round  it.  Even  then  Peter  did 
not  understand.  He  did  not  understand  until 
he  saw  Stewart,  limp  and  unconscious,  lifted 
out  of  the  straw  and  carried  toward  him. 

Suicide  may  be  moral  cowardice;  but  it 
requires  physical  bravery.  And  Marie  was  not 
brave.  The  balcony  had  attracted  her:  it 
opened  possibilities  of  escape,  of  unceasing 
regret  and  repentance  for  Stewart,  of  publicity 
that  would  mean  an  end  to  the  situation. 
But  every  inch  of  her  soul  was  craven  at  the 
thought.  She  crept  out  often  and  looked  down, 
and  as  often  drew  back,  shuddering.  To  fall 
down,  down  on  to  the  tree  tops,  to  be  dropped 
from  branch  to  branch,  a  broken  thing,  and 
perhaps  even  not  yet  dead  —  that  was  the 
unthinkable  thing,  to  live  for  a  time  and  suffer! 

Stewart  was  not  ignorant  of  all  that  went 
on  in  her  mind.  She  had  threatened  him  with 

244 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

the  balcony,  just  as,  earlier  in  the  winter,  it  had 
been  a  window-ledge  with  which  she  had  fright- 
ened him.  But  there  was  this  difference,  whereas  , 
before  he  had  drawn  her  back  from  the  window 
and  slapped  her  into  sanity,  now  he  let  her 
alone.  At  the  end  of  one  of  their  quarrels  she 
had  flung  out  on  to  the  balcony,  and  then  had 
watched  him  through  the  opening  in  the  shutter. 
He  had  lighted  a  cigarette ! 

Stewart  spent  every  daylight  hour  at  the 
hotel,  or  walking  over  the  mountain  roads, 
seldom  alone  with  Anita,  but  always  near  her. 
He  left  Marie  sulking  or  sewing,  as  the  case 
might  be.  He  returned  in  the  evening  to  find 
her  still  sulking,  still  sewing. 

But  Marie  did  not  sulk  all  day,  or  sew.  She 
too  was  out,  never  far  from  Stewart,  always 
watching.  Many  times  she  escaped  discovery 
only  by  a  miracle,  as  when  she  stooped  behind 
an  oxcart,  pretending  to  tie  her  shoe,  or  once 
when  they  all  met  face  to  face,  and  although 
she  lowered  her  veil  Stewart  must  have  known 
her  instantly  had  he  not  been  so  intent  on  help- 
ing Anita  over  a  slippery  gutter. 

She  planned  a  dozen  forms  of  revenge  and 
found  them  impossible  of  execution.  Stewart 
himself  was  frightfully  unhappy.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  was  really  in  love,  with  all 
the  humility  of  the  condition.  There  were  days 

245 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

when  he  would  not  touch  Anita's  hand,  when 
he  hardly  spoke,  when  the  girl  herself  would  have 
been  outraged  at  his  conduct  had  she  not  now 
and  then  caught  him  watching  her,  seen  the 
wretchedness  in  his  eyes. 

The  form  of  Marie's  revenge  was  unpre- 
meditated, after  all.  The  light  mountain  snow 
was  augmented  by  a  storm;  roads  were  ploughed 
through  early  in  the  morning,  leaving  great 
banks  on  either  side.  Sleigh-bells  were  every- 
where. Coasting  parties  made  the  steep  roads 
a  menace  to  the  pedestrian;  every  up-climbing 
sleigh  earned  behind  it  a  string  of  sleds,  going 
back  to  the  starting-point* 

Below  the  hotel  was  the  Serpentine  Coast, 
a  long  and  dangerous  course,  full  of  high-banked 
curves,  of  sudden  descents,  of  long  straightaway 
dashes  through  the  woodland.  Two  miles, 
perhaps  three,  it  wound  its  tortuous  way  down 
the  mountain.  Up  by  the  highroad  to  the  crest 
again,  only  a  mile  or  less.  Thus  it  happened  that 
the  track  was  always  clear,  except  for  speeding 
sleds.  No  coasters,  dragging  sleds  back  up  the 
slide,  interfered. 

The  track  was  crowded.  Every  minute  a  sled 
set  out,  sped  down  the  straightaway,  dipped, 
turned,  disappeared.  A  dozen  would  be  lined 
up,  waiting  for  the  interval  and  the  signal. 
And  here,  watching  from  the  porch  of  the  church. 

246 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

in  the  very  shadow  of  the  saints,  Marie 
her  revenge. 

Stewart  had  given  her  a  little  wrist  watch. 
Stewart  and  Anita  were  twelfth  in  line.  By 
the  watch,  then,  twelve  minutes  down  the 
mountain-side,  straight  down  through  the  trees 
to  a  curve  that  Made  knew  well,  a  bad  curve, 
only  to  be  taken  b^  Conning  well  up  on  the 
snowbank.  Beyond  the  snowbank  there  was  a 
drop,  fifteen  feet,  perhaps  more,  into  the  yard 
of  a  Russian  villa.  Stewart  and  Anita  were 
twelfth;  a  man  in  a  green  stocking-cap  was 
eleventh.  The  hillside  was  steep.  Marie  nego- 
tiated it  by  running  from  tree  to  tree,  catching 
herself,  steadying  for  #  second,  then  down 
again.  Once  she  fell  and  rolled  a  little  distance. 
'There  was  no  time  to  think;  perhaps  had  she 
thought  she  would  have  weakened.  She  had 
no  real  courage,  only  desperation. 

As  she  reached  the  track  the  man  in  the  green 
stocking-cap  was  in  sight.  A  minute  and  a 
half  she  had  then,  not  more.  She  looked  about 
her  hastily.  A  stone  might  serve  her  purpose,, 
almost  anything  that  would  throw  the  sled  out 
of  its  course.  She  saw  a  tree  branch  just  above 
the  track  and  dragged  at  it  frantically.  Some  one 
was  shouting  at  her  from  an  upper  window  of 
the  Russian  villa.  She  did  not  hear.  Stewart 
and  Anita  had  made  the  curve  above  and  were 

247 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

coming  down  at  frantic  speed.  Marie  stoody 
her  back  to  the  oncoming  rush  of  the  sled, 
swaying  slightly.  When  she  could  hear  the 
singing  of  the  runners  she  stooped  and  slid  the 
tree  branch  out  across  the  track. 

She  had  acted  almost  by  instinct,  but  with 
devilish  skill.  The  sled  swung  to  one  side  up 
the  snowbank,  and  launched  itself  into  the 
air.  Marie  heard  the  thud  and  the  silence  that 
followed  it.  Then  she  turned  and  scuttled  like 
a  hunted  thing  up  the  mountain-side. 

Peter  put  in  a  bad  day.  Marie  was  not  about, 
could  not  be  located.  Stewart,  suffering  from 
concussion,  lay  insensible  all  day  and  all  of  the 
night.  Peter  could  find  no  fracture,  but  felt  it 
wise  to  get  another  opinion.  In  the  afternoon 
he  sent  for  a  doctor  from  the  Kurhaus  and 
learned  for  the  first  time  that  Anita  had  also 
been  hurt  —  a  broken  arm. 

"Not  serious,"  said  the  Kurhaus  man.  "She 
is  brave,  very  brave,  the  young  woman.  I 
believe  they  are  engaged?" 

Peter  said  he  did  not  know  and  thought  very- 
hard.  Where  was  Marie?  Not  gone  surely, 
Here  about  him  lay  all  her  belongings,  even 
her  purse. 

Toward  evening  Stewart  showed  some  im- 
provement. He  was  not  conscious,  but  he 

248 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

swallowed  better  and  began  to  toss  about. 
Peter,  who  had  had  a  long  day  and  very  little 
sleep  the  night  before,  began  to  look  jaded. 
He  would  have  sent  for  a  nurse  from  the  Kur- 
haus,  but  he  doubted  Stewart's  ability  to  stand 
any  extra  financial  strain,  and  Peter  could  not 
help  any. 

The  time  for  supper  passed,  and  no  Marie. 
The  landlady  sent  up  a  tray  to  Peter,  stewed 
meat  and  potatoes,  a  salad,  coffee.  Peter  sat 
in  a  corner  with  his  back  to  Stewart  and  ate 
ravenously.  He  had  had  nothing  since  the 
morning's  coffee.  After  that  he  sat  down  again 
by  the  bed  to  watch.  There  was  little  to  do  but 
watch. 

The  meal  had  made  him  drowsy.  He  thought 
longingly  of  his  pipe.  Perhaps  if  he  got  some 
fresh  air  and  a  smoke!  He  remembered  the 
balcony. 

It  was  there  on  the  balcony  that  he  found 
Marie,  a  cowering  thing  that  pushed  his  hands 
away  when  he  would  have  caught  her  and 
broke  into  passionate  crying. 

"  I  cannot !  I  cannot ! " 

" Cannot  what?"  demanded  Peter  gently, 
watching  her.  So  near  was  the  balcony  rail! 

"Throw  myself  over.  I've  tried,  Peter.  I 
cannot!" 

"I  should  think  not!"  said  Peter  sternly. 
249 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Just  now  when  we  need  you,  too!  Come  in 
and  don't  be  a  foolish  child." 

But  Marie  would  not  go  in.  She  held  back, 
clinging  tight  to  Peter's  big  hand,  moaning 
out  in  the  dialect  of  the  people  that  always 
confused  him  her  story  of  the  day,  of  what  she 
had  done,  of  watching  Stewart  brought  back, 
•of  stealing  into  the  house  and  through  an  ad- 
jacent room  to  the  balcony,  of  her  desperation 
find  her  cowardice. 

She  was  numb  with  cold,  exhaustion,  and 
Riunger,  quite  childish,  helpless.  Peter  stood 
«)ut  on  the  balcony  with  his  arm  round  her, 
svhile  the  night  wind  beat  about  them,  and 
pondered  what  was  best  to  do.  He  thought  she 
might  come  in  and  care  for  Stewart,  at  least, 
until  he  was  conscious.  He  could  get  her  some 
supper. 

"How  can  I?"  she  asked.  "I  was  seen.  They 
are  searching  for  me  now.  Oh,  Peter!  Peter!" 

"Who    is    searching    for    you?     Who    saw 

you?" 

"The  people  in  the  Russian  villa." 

"Did  they  see  your  face?" 

"I  wore  a  veil.   I  think  not." 

"Then  come  in  and  change  your  clothes. 
There  is  a  train  down  at  midnight.  You  can 
take  it." 

"I  have  no  money." 

250 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

This  raised  a  delicate  question.  Marie  ab- 
solutely refused  to  take  Stewart's  money.  She 
had  almost  none  of  her  own.  And  there  were 
other  complications  —  where  was  she  to  go? 
The  family  of  the  injured  girl  did  not  suspect 
her  since  they  did  not  know  -of  her  existence, 
She  might  get  away  without  trouble.  But  after 
that,  what? 

Peter  pondered  this  on  the  balcony,  while 
Marie  in  the  bedroom  was  changing  her  clothing, 
soaked  with  a  day  in  the  snow.  He  came  to  the 
inevitable  decision,  the  decision  he  knew  at  the 
beginning  that  he  was  going  to  make. 

"If  I  could  only  put  it  up  to  Harmony  first!" 
he  reflected.  "But  she  will  understand  when  1 
tell  her.  She  always  understands." 

Standing  there  on  the  little  balcony,  with 
tragedy  the  thickness  of  a  pine  board  beyond 
him,  Peter  experienced  a  bit  of  the  glow  of  the 
morning,  as  of  one  who  stumbling  along  in  a 
dark  place  puts  a  hand  on  a  friend. 

He  went  into  the  room.  Stewart  was  lying 
very  still  and  breathing  easily.  On  her  knees 
beside  the  bed  knelt  Marie.  At  Peter's  step  she 
rose  and  faced  him. 

"I  am  leaving  him,  Peter,  for  always." 

"Good!"  said  Peter  heartily.  "Better  for 
you  and  better  for  him." 

Marie  drew  a  long  breath.  "The  night  train,** 
251 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

she  said  listlessly,  "is  an  express.    I  had  for- 
gotten.  It  is  double  fare." 

"What  of  that,  little  sister?"  said  Peter. 
"What  is  a  double  fare  when  it  means  life, 
liberty  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness? 
%here  will  be  happiness,  little  sister." 

He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  Portier  was  almost  happy  that  morning 
For  one  thing,  he  had  won  honorable 
mention  at  the  Schubert  Society  the  night 
before;  for  another,  that  night  the  Engel  was 
to  sing  Mignon,  and  the  Portier  had  spent  his 
Christmas  tips  for  a  ticket.  All  day  long  he 
had  been  poring  over  the  score. 

'Kennst  du  das  Land  wo  die  Citroneri 
bliihen?'  he  sang  with  feeling  while  he  pol- 
ished the  floors.  He  polished  them  with  his  feet, 
wearing  felt  boots  for  the  purpose,  and  execut- 
ing in  the  doing  a  sort  of  ungainly  dance  — • 
a  sprinkle  of  wax,  right  foot  forward  and  back, 
left  foot  forward  and  back,  both  feet  forward 
and  back  in  a  sort  of  double  shuffle;  more  wax, 
more  vigorous  polishing,  more  singing,  with 
longer  pauses  for  breath.  :  'Knowest  thou  the 
land  where  the  lemon  trees  bloom?'  '  he  bel- 
lowed —  sprinkle  of  wax,  right  foot,  left  foot,  any 
foot  at  all.  Now  and  then  he  took  the  score  from 
his  pocket  and  pored  over  it,  humming  the  air, 
raising  his  eyebrows  over  the  high  notes, 
dropping  his  chin  to  the  low  ones.  It  was  a 
wonderful  morning.  Between  greetings  to 

253 


neighbors   he   sang  —  a   bit   of   talk,   a   bit   of 
song. 

: '  Kennst  du  das  Land '  -  -  Good-morning,  sir 
—  the  old  Rax  wears  a  crown.  It  will  snow  soon. 
'Kennst  du  das  Land  wo  die  Citronen'  -Ah, 
madam  the  milk  Frau,  and  are  the  cows  frozen 
up  to-day  like  the  pump?  No?  Marvelous! 
Dost  thou  know  that  to-night  is  Mignon  at  the 
Opera,  and  that  the  Engel  sings?  '  Kennst  du 
das  Land ' 

At  eleven  came  Rosa  with  her  husband,  the 
soldier  from  Salzburg  with  one  lung.  He  was 
having  a  holiday  from  his  sentry  duty  at  the 
hospital,  and  the  one  lung  seemed  to  be  a  libel, 
for  while  the  women  had  coffee  together  and 
a  bit  of  mackerel  he  sang  a  very  fair  bass  to  the 
Portier's  tenor.  Together  they  pored  over  the 
score,  and  even  on  their  way  to  the  beer  hall 
hummed  together  such  bits  as  they  recalled. 

On  one  point  they  differed.  The  score  was 
old  and  soiled  with  much  thumbing.  At  one 
point,  destroyed  long  since,  the  sentry  sang  A 
sharp:  the  Portier  insisted  on  A  natural.  They 
argued  together  over  three  Steins  of  beer;  the 
waiter,  referred  to,  decided  for  A  flat.  It  was 
a  serious  matter  to  have  one's  teeth  set,  as  one 
may  say,  for  a  natural  and  then  to  be  shocked 
with  an  unexpected  half-tone  up  or  down!  It 
destroyed  the  illusion;  it  disappointed;  it  hurt, 

254 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  sentry  stuck  to  the  sharp  —  it  was  sung 
so  at  the  Salzburg  opera.  The  Portier  snapped 
his  thumb  at  the  Salzburg  opera.  Things  were 
looking  serious;  they  walked  back  to  the  lodge 
in  silence.  The  sentry  coughed.  Possibly  there 
was  something,  after  all,  in  the  one-lung  rumor. 

It  was  then  that  the  Portier  remembered 
Harmony.  She  would  know;  perhaps  she  had 
the  score. 

Harmony  was  having  a  bad  morning.  She 
had  slept  little  until  dawn,  and  Peter's  stealthy 
closing  of  the  outer  door  had  wakened  her  by 
its  very  caution.  After  that  there  had  been  no 
more  sleep.  She  had  sat  up  in  bed  with  her  chin 
in  her  hands  and  thought. 

In  the  pitiless  dawn,  with  no  Peter  to  restore 
her  to  cheerfulness,  things  looked  black,  indeed. 
To  what  had  she  fallen,  that  first  one  man  and 
then  another  must  propose  marriage  to  her  to 
save  her.  To  save  her  from  what?  From  what 
people  thought,  or  —  each  from  the  other? 
Were  men  so  evil  that  they  never  trusted  each 
other?  McLean  had  frankly  distrusted  Peter, 
had  said  so.  Or  could  it  be  that  there  was  some- 
thing about  her,  something  light  and  frivolous; 
She  had  been  frivolous.  She  always  laughed  at 
Peter's  foolishnesses.  Perhaps  that  was  it. 
That  was  it.  They  were  afraid  for  her.  She  had 

255 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

thrown  herself  on  Peter's  hands  —  almost  into 
his  arms.  She  had  made  this  situation. 

She  must  get  away,  of  course.  If  only  she 
had  some  one  to  care  for  Jimmy  until  Peter 
returned!  But  there  was  no  one.  The  Portier's 
wife  was  fond  of  Jimmy,  but  not  skillful.  And 
suppose  he  were  to  wake  in  the  night  and  call 
for  her  and  she  would  not  come.  She  cried  a 
little  over  this.  After  a  time  she  pattered  across 
the  room  in  her  bare  feet  and  got  from  a  bureau 
drawer  the  money  she  had  left.  There  was  not 
half  enough  to  take  her  home.  She  could  write; 
the  little  mother  might  get  some  for  her,  but  at 
infinite  cost,  infinite  humiliation.  That  would 
have  to  be  a  final,  desperate  resort. 

She  felt  a  little  more  cheerful  when  she  had 
had  a  cup  of  coffee.  Jimmy  wakened  about 
that  time,  and  she  went  through  the  details  of 
his  morning  toilet  with  all  the  brightness  she 
could  assume  —  bath  blankets,  warm  bath, 
toenails,  finger-nails,  fresh  nightgown,  fresh 
sheets,  and  —  final  touch  of  all  —  a  real  barber's- 
part  straight  from  orown  to  brow.  After  that 
ten  minutes  under  extra  comforters  while  the 
room  aired. 

She  hung  over  the  boy  that  morning  in  an 
agony  of  tenderness  —  he  was  so  little,  so  frail, 
and  she  must  leave  him.  Only  one  thing  sus- 
tained her.  The  boy  loved  her,  but  it  was  Peter 

256 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

he  idolized.  When  he  had  Peter  he  needed 
nothing  else.  In  some  curious  process  of  his 
childish  mind  Peter  and  Daddy  mingled  in 
inextricable  confusion.  More  than  once  he 
had  recalled  events  in  the  roving  life  he  and  his 
father  had  led. 

;'You  remember  that,  don't  you?"  he  would 
say. 

"Certainly  I  remember,"  Peter  would  reply 
heartily. 

"That  evening  on  the  steamer  when  I  ate  so 
many  raisins." 

"Of  course.   And  were  ill." 

"Not  ill  —  not  that  time.  But  you  said  I'd 
make  a  good  pudding!  You  remember  that, 
don't  you?" 

And  Peter  would  recall  it  all. 

Peter  would  be  left.  That  was  the  girl's 
-comfort. 

She  made  a  beginning  at  gathering  her  things 
together  that  morning,  while  the  boy  dozed  and 
the  white  mice  scurried  about  the  little  cage. 
She  could  not  take  her  trunk,  or  Peter  would 
trace  it.  She  would  have  to  carry  her  belong- 
ings, a  few  at  a  time,  to  wherever  she  found  a 
room.  Then  when  Peter  came  back  she  could 
.slip  away  and  he  would  never  find  her. 

At  noon  came  the  Portier  and  the  sentry, 
now  no  longer  friends,  and  rang  the  doorbell. 

257 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony  was  rather  startled.  McLean  and 
Mrs.  Boyer  had  been  her  only  callers,  and  she 
did  not  wish  to  see  either  of  them.  But  after  a 
second  ring  she  gathered  her  courage  in  her  hands 
and  opened  the  door. 

She  turned  pale  when  she  saw  the  sentry  in 
his  belted  blue-gray  tunic  and  high  cap.  She 
thought,  of  course,  that  Jimmy  had  been  traced 
and  that  now  he  would  be  taken  away.  *  If  the 
sentry  knew  her,  however,  he  kept  his  face 
impassive  and  merely  touched  his  cap.  The 
Portier  stated  their  errand.  Harmony's  face 
cleared.  She  even  smiled  as  the  Portier  extended 
to  her  the  thumbed  score  with  its  missing  corner. 
What,  after  all,  does  it  matter  which  was  right 
—  whether  it  was  A  sharp  or  A  natural?  What 
really  matters  is  that  Harmony,  having  settled 
the  dispute  and  clinched  the  decision  by  run- 
ning over  the  score  for  a  page  or  two,  turned  to 
find  the  Portier,  ecstatic  eyes  upturned,  hands 
folded  on  paunch,  enjoying  a  delirium  of  pleas- 
ure, and  the  sentry  nowhere  in  sight. 

•He  was  discovered  a  moment  later  in  the 
doorway  of  Jimmy's  room,  where,  taciturn  as 
ever,  severe,  martial,  he  stood  at  attention, 
shoulders  back,  arms  at  his  sides,  thumbs  in. 
In  this  position  he  was  making,  with  amazing 
rapidity,  a  series  of  hideous  grimaces  for  the 
benefit  of  the  little  boy  in  the  bed:  marvelous 

258 


The  Stieet  of  Seven  Stars 

faces  they  were,  in  which  nose,  mouth,  and  eyes 
seemed  interchangeable,  where  features  played 
leapfrog  with  one  another.  When  all  was  over 
-perhaps  when  his  repertoire  was  exhausted 
-  the  sentry  returned  his  nose  to  the  center 
of  his  face,  replaced  eyes  and  mouth,  and  wiped 
the  ensemble  with  a  blue  cotton  handkerchief. 
Then,  still  in  silence,  he  saluted  and  withdrew, 
leaving  the  youngster  enraptured,  staring  at 
the  doorway. 

Harmony  had  decided  the  approximate  loca- 
tion of  her  room.  In  the  higher  part  of  the  city, 
in  the  sixteenth  district,  there  were  many  un- 
pretentious buildings.  She  had  hunted  board 
there  and  she  knew.  It  was  far  from  the  Stadt 
far  from  the  fashionable  part  of  town,  a  neigh- 
borhood of  small  shops,  of  frank  indigence. 
There  surely  she  could  find  a  room,  and  per- 
haps in  one  of  the  small  stores  what  she  failed 
to  secure  in  the  larger,  a  position. 

Rosa  having  taken  her  soldier  away,  Harmony 
secured  the  Portier's  wife  to  sit  with  Jimmy 
and  spent  two  hours  that  afternoon  looking 
about  for  a  room.  She  succeeded  finally  in 
finding  one,  a  small  and  wretchedly  furnished 
bedroom,  part  of  the  suite  of  a  cheap  dress- 
maker. The  approach  was  forbidding  enough. 
One  entered  a  cavelike,  cobble-paved  court 

259 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

under  the  building,  filled  with  wagons,  feeding 
horses,  quarrelsome  and  swearing  teamsters. 
From  the  side  a  stone  staircase  took  off  and  led, 
twisting  from  one  landing  cave  to  another,  to 
the  upper  floor. 

Here  lived  the  dressmaker,  amid  the  constant 
whirring  of  sewing-machines,  the  Babel  of  work- 
people. Harmony,  seeking  not  a  home  but  a 
hiding-place,  took  the  room  at  once.  She  was 
asked  for  no  reference.  In  a  sort  of  agony  lest 
this  haven  fail  her  she  paid  for  a  week  in  ad- 
vance. The  wooden  bed,  the  cracked  mirror 
over  the  table,  even  the  pigeons  outside  on  the 
window-sill  were  hers  for  a  week. 

The  dressmaker  was  friendly,  almost  gar- 
rulous. 

"I  will  have  it  cleaned,"  she  explained.  "I 
have  been  so  busy:  the  masquerade  season  is 
on.  The  Fraulein  is  American,  is  she  not?" 

"Yes." 

"One  knows  the  Americans.  They  are  chic, 
not  like  the  English.  I  have  some  American 
customers." 

Harmony  started.  The  dressmaker  was  shrewd. 
Many  people  hid  in  the  sixteenth  district.  She 
hastened  to  reassure  the  girl. 

:'They  will  not  disturb  you.  And  just  now 
I  have  but  one,  a  dancer.  I  shall  have  the  room 
cleaned.  Good-bye,  Fraulein." 

260 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

So  far,  good.  She  had  a  refuge  now,  one  spot 
that  the  venom  of  scandal  could  not  poison, 
where  she  could  study  and  work  —  work  hard, 
although  there  could  be  no  more  lessons  —  one 
spot  where  Peter  would  not  have  to  protect  her, 
where  Peter,  indeed,  would  never  find  her.  This 
thought,  which  should  have  brought  comfort, 
brought  only  new  misery.  Peace  seemed  dearly 
bought  all  at  once;  shabby,  wholesome,  hearty 
Peter,  with  his  rough  hair  and  quiet  voice,  his 
bulging  pockets  and  steady  eyes  —  she  was 
leaving  Peter  forever,  exchanging  his  companion- 
ship for  that  of  a  row  of  pigeons  on  a  window- 
sill.  He  would  find  some  one,  of  course;  but 
who  would  know  that  he  liked  toast  made  hard 
and  plenty  of  butter,  or  to  leave  his  bed-cloth- 
ing loose  at  the  foot,  Peter  being  very  long  and 
apt  to  lop  over?  The  lopping  over  brought  a 
tear  or  two.  A  very  teary  and  tragic  young 
heroine,  this  Harmony,  prone  to  go  about  for 
the  last  day  or  two  with  a  damp  little  handker- 
chief tucked  in  her  sleeve. 

She  felt  her  way  down  the  staircase  and  into 
the  cave  below.  Fate  hangs  by  a  very  slender 
thread  sometimes.  If  a  wagon  had  not  lum- 
bered by  as  she  reached  the  lowest  step,  so  that 
she  must  wait  and  thus  had  time  to  lower  her 
veil,  she  would  have  been  recognized  at  once  by 
the  little  Georgiev,  waiting  to  ascend.  But  the 

261 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

wagon  was  there,  Harmony  lowered  her  veil, 
the  little  Georgiev,  passing  a  veiled  young 
woman  in  the  gloom,  went  up  the  staircase  with 
even  pulses  and  calm  and  judicial  bearing,  up 
to  the  tiny  room  a  floor  or  two  below  Har- 
mony's, where  he  wrote  reports  to  the  Minister 
of  War  and  mixed  them  with  sonnets  —  to 
Harmony. 

Harmony  went  back  to  the  Siebensternstrasse, 
having  accomplished  what  she  had  set  out  to  do 
and  being  very  wretched  in  consequence. 
Because  she  was  leaving  the  boy  so  soon  she 
strove  to  atone  for  her  coming  defection  by 
making  it  a  gala  evening.  The  child  was  very 
happy.  She  tucked  him  up  in  the  salon,  lighted 
all  the  candles,  served  him  the  daintiest  ol 
suppers  there.  She  brought  in  the  mice  and  tied 
tiny  bows  on  their  necks;  she  played  checkers 
with  him  while  the  supper  dishes  waited,  and 
went  down  to  defeat  in  three  hilarious  games; 
and  last  of  all  she  played  to  him,  joyous  music 
at  first,  then  slower,  drowsier  airs,  until  his 
heavy  head  dropped  on  his  shoulder  and  she 
gathered  him  up  in  tender  arms  and  carried  him 
to  bed. 

It  was  dawn  when  Marie  arrived.  Harmony 
was  sleeping  soundly  when  the  bell  rang.  Her 
first  thought  was  that  Peter  had  come  back  — 
but  Peter  carried  a  key.  The  bell  rang  again, 

262 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  she  slipped  on  the  old  kimono  and  went  to 
the  door. 

"Is  it  Peter?"  she  called,  hand  on  knob. 

"I  come  from  Peter.  I  have  a  letter,"  in 
German. 

"Who  is  it?" 

'You    do   not   know  me  —  Marie   Jedlicka. 
Please  let  me  come  in." 

Bewildered,  Harmony  opened  the  door,  and 
like  a  gray  ghost  Marie  slipped  by  her  and  into 
the  hall. 

There  was  a  gaslight  burning  very  low; 
Harmony  turned  it  up  and  faced  her  visitor. 
She  recognized  her  at  once  —  the  girl  Dr. 
Stewart  had  been  with  in  the  coffee-house. 

"Something  has  happened  to  Peter!" 

"No.  He  is  well.  He  sent  this  to  the  Fraulein 
Wells." 

"I  am  the  Fraulein  Wells." 

Marie  held  out  the  letter  and  staggered. 
Harmony  put  her  in  a  chair;  she  was  bewil- 
dered, almost  frightened.  Crisis  of  some  sort 
was  written  on  Marie's  face.  Harmony  felt 
very  young,  very  incapable.  The  other  girl 
refused  coffee,  would  not  even  go  into  the 
salon  until  Peter's  letter  had  been  read.  She 
was  a  fugitive,  a  criminal ;  the  Austrian  law 
is  severe  to  those  that  harbor  criminals.  Let 
Harmony  read :  - 

263 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"DEAR  HARRY, --Will  you  forgive  me  for 
this  and  spread  the  wings  of  your  splendid 
charity  over  this  poor  child?  Perhaps  I  am  doing 
wrong  in  sending  her  to  you,  but  just  now  it  is 
all  I  can  think  of.  If  she  wants  to  talk  let  her 
talk.  It  will  probably  help  her.  Also  feed  her, 
will  you?  And  if  she  cannot  sleep,  give  her  one 
of  the  blue  powders  I  fixed  for  Jimmy.  I'll  be 
back  late  to-day  if  I  can  make  it.  «  p  ,, 

Harmony  glanced  up  from  the  letter.  Marie 
sat  drooping  in  her  chair.  Her  eyes  were  sunken 
in  her  head.  She  had  recognized  her  at  once, 
but  any  surprise  she  may  have  felt  at  finding 
Harmony  in  Peter's  apartment  was  sunk  in  a 
general  apathy,  a  compound  of  nervous  reaction 
and  fatigue.  During  the  long  hours  in  the  ex- 
press she  had  worn  herself  out  with  fright  and 
remorse:  there  was  nothing  left  now  but  ex- 
haustion. 

Harmony  was  bewildered,  but  obedient.  She 
went  back  to  the  cold  kitchen  and  lighted  a  fire. 
She  made  Marie  as  comfortable  as  she  could  in 
the  salon,  and  then  went  into  her  room  to  dress. 
There  she  read  the  letter  again,  and  wondered 
if  Peter  had  gone  through  life  like  this,  picking 
up  waifs  and  strays  and  shouldering  their  bur- 
dens for  them.  Decidedly,  life  with  Peter  wa? 
full  of  surprises. 

264 


She  remembered,  as  she  hurried  into  her 
clothes,  the  boys'  club  back  in  America  and  the 
spelling-matches.  Decidedly,  also,  Peter  was 
an  occupation,  a  state  of  mind,  a  career.  No 
musician,  hoping  for  a  career  of  her  own,  could 
possibly  marry  Peter. 

That  was  a  curious  morning  in  the  old  lodge 
of  Maria  Theresa,  while  Stewart  in  the  Pension 
Waldheim  struggled  back  to  consciousness, 
while  Peter  sat  beside  him  and  figured  on  an  old 
envelope  the  problem  of  dividing  among  four 
enough  money  to  support  one,  while  McLean 
ate  his  heart  out  in  wretchedness  in  his 
hotel. 

Marie  told  her  story  over  the  early  breakfast  > 
sitting  with  her  thin  elbows  on  the  table,  her 
pointed  chin  in  her  palms. 

"And  now  I   am   sorry,"   she  finished.    "It 
has  done  no  good.    If  it  had  only  killed  her  - 
but  she  was  not  much  hurt.   I  saw  her  rise  and 
bend  over  him." 

Harmony  was  silent.  She  had  no  stock  of 
aphorisms  for  the  situation,  no  worldly  knowl- 
edge, only  pity. 

"Did  Peter  say  he  would  recover?" 

"Yes.  They  will  both  recover  and  go  to 
America.  And  he  will  marry  her." 

Perhaps  Harmony  would  have  been  less  com- 
fortable, Marie  less  frank,  had  Marie  realized 

265 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

that  this  establishment  of  Peter's  was  not  on 
the  same  basis  as  Stewart's  had  been,  or  had 
Harmony  divined  her  thought. 

The  presence  of  the  boy  was  discovered 
by  his  waking.  Marie  was  taken  in  and 
presented.  She  looked  stupefied.  Certainly 
the  Americans  were  a  marvelous  people  —  to 
have  taken  into  their  house  and  their 
hearts  this  strange  child  —  if  he  were  strange. 
Marie's  suspicious  little  slum  mind  was  not 
certain. 

In  the  safety  and  comfort  of  the  little  apart- 
ment the  Viennese  expanded,  cheered.  She 
devoted  herself  to  the  boy,  telling  him  strange 
folk  tales,  singing  snatches  of  songs  for  him. 
The  youngster  took  a  liking  to  her  at  once. 
It  seemed  to  Harmony,  going  about  her  morn- 
ing routine,  that  Marie  was  her  solution  and 
Peter's. 

During  the  afternoon  she  took  a  package  to 
the  branch  post-office  and  mailed  it  by  parcel- 
post  to  the  Wollbadgasse.  On  the  way  she  met 
Mrs.  Boyer  face  to  face.  That  lady  looked 
severely  ahead,  and  Harmony  passed  her  with 
her  chin  well  up  and  the  eyes  of  a  wounded 
animal. 

McLean  sent  a  great  box  of  flowers  that  day. 
She  put  them,  for  lack  of  a  vase,  in  a  pitcher 
beside  Jimmy's  bed. 

266 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

At  dusk  a  telegram  came  to  say  that  Stewart 
was  better  and  that  Peter  was  on  his  way  down 
to  Vienna.  He  would  arrive  at  eight.  Time  was 
very  short  now  —  seconds  flashed  by,  minutes 
galloped.  Harmony  stewed  a  chicken  for  supper, 
and  creamed  the  breast  for  Jimmy.  She  fixed 
the  table,  flowers  in  the  center,  the  best  cloth. 
Peter's  favorite  cheese.  Six  o'clock,  six-thirty, 
seven;  Marie  was  telling  Jimmy  a  fairy  tale  and 
making  the  fairies  out  of  rosebuds.  The  study- 
lamp  was  lighted,  the  stove  glowing,  Peter's 
slippers  were  out,  his  old  smoking-coat,  his 
pipe. 

A  quarter  past  seven.  Peter  would  be  near 
Vienna  now  and  hungry.  If  he  could  only  eat 
his  supper  before  he  learned --but  that  was 
impossible.  He  would  come  in,  as  he  always  did, 
and  slam  the  outer  door,  and  open  it  again  to 
close  it  gently,  as  he  always  did,  and  then  he 
would  look  for  her,  going  from  room  to  room 
until  he  found  her  —  only  to-night  he  would 
not  find  her. 

She  did  not  say  good-bye  to  Jimmy.  She 
stood  in  the  doorway  and  said  a  little  prayer 
for  him.  Marie  had  made  the  flower  fairies  on 
needles,  and  they  stood  about  his  head  on  the 
pillow  —  pink  and  yellow  and  white  elves  with 
fluffy  skirts.  Then,  very  silently,  she  put  on 
her  hat  and  jacket  and  closed  the  outer  door 

267 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

behind  her.  In  the  courtyard  she  turned  and 
looked  up.  The  great  chandelier  in  the  salon 
was  not  lighted,  but  from  the  casement  windows 
shone  out  the  comfortable  glow  of  Peter's 
lamp. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

PETER  had  had  many  things  to  think  over 
during  the  ride  down  the  mountains.  He 
had  the  third-class  compartment  to  himself, 
and  sat  in  a  corner,  soft  hat  over  his  eyes.  Life 
had  never  been  particularly  simple  to  Peter  - 
his  own  life,  yes;  a  matter  of  three  meals  a  day 
—  he  had  had  fewer  —  a  roof,  clothing.  But 
other  lives  had  always  touched  him  closely, 
and  at  the  contact  points  Peter  glowed,  fused, 
amalgamated.  Thus  he  had  been  many  people 

-  good,  indifferent,  bad,  but  all  needy.    Thus, 
also,    Peter   had    committed    vicarious    crimes, 
suffered  vicarious  illnesses,  starved,  died,  loved 

-  vicariously. 

And  now,  after  years  of  living  for  others, 
Peter  was  living  at  last  for  himself  —  and 
suffering. 

Not  that  he  understood  exactly  what  ailed 
him.  He  thought  he  was  tired,  which  was  true 
enough,  having  had  little  sleep  for  two  or  three 
nights.  Also  he  explained  to  himself  that  he 
was  smoking  too  much,  and  resolutely  --  lighted 
another  cigarette. 

Two  things  had  revealed  Peter's  condition 
269 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

to  himself:  McLean  had  said:  "You  are  crazy 
in  love  with  her."  McLean's  statement,  lacking 
subtlety,  had  had  a  certain  quality  of  direct- 
ness. Even  then  Peter,  utterly  miserable,  had 
refused  to  capitulate,  when  to  capitulate  would 
have  meant  the  surrender  of  the  house  in  the 
Siebensternstrasse.  And  the  absence  from  Har- 
mony had  shown  him  just  where  he  stood. 

He  was  in  love,  crazy  in  love.  Every  fiber  of 
his  long  body  glowed  with  it,  ached  with  it. 
And  every  atom  of  his  reason  told  him  what  mad 
folly  it  was,  this  love.  Even  if  Harmony  cared 
—  and  at  the  mere  thought  his  heart  pounded 
-  what  madness  for  her,  what  idiocy  for  him ! 
To  ask  her  to  accept  the  half  of  —  nothing,  to 
give  up  a  career  to  share  his  struggle  for  one, 
to  ask  her  to  bury  her  splendid  talent  and  her 
beauty  under  a  bushel  that  he  might  wave  aloft 
his  feeble  light! 

And  there  was  no  way  out,  no  royal  road  to 
fortune  by  the  route  he  had  chosen;  nothing 
but  grinding  work,  with  a  result  problematical 
and  years  ahead.  There  were  even  no  legacies 
to  expect,  he  thought  whimsically.  Peter  had 
known  a  chap  once,  struggling  along  in  gynecol- 
ogy,  who  had  had  a  fortune  left  him  by  a  G.  P., 
which  being  interpreted  is  Grateful  Patient. 
Peter's  patients  had  a  way  of  living,  and  when 
they  did  drop  out,  as  happened  now  and  then, 

270 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

had  also  a  way  of  leaving  Peter  an  unpaid 
bill  in  token  of  appreciation;  Peter  had  even 
occasionally  helped  to  bury  them,  by  way, 
he  defended  himself,  of  covering  up  his  mis- 
takes. 

Peter,  sitting  back  in  his  corner,  allowed  the 
wonderful  scenery  to  slip  by  unnoticed.  He 
put  Harmony  the  Desirable  out  of  his  mind,  and 
took  to  calculating  on  a  scrap  of  paper  what 
could  be  done  for  Harmony  the  Musician.  He 
could  hold  out  for  three  months,  he  calculated, 
and  still  have  enough  to  send  Harmony  home 
and  to  get  home  himself  on  a  slow  boat.  The 
Canadian  lines  were  cheap.  If  Jimmy  lived 
perhaps  he  could  take  him  along:  if  not- 

He  would  have  to  put  six  months'  work  in  the 
next  three.  That  was  not  so  hard.  He  had  got 
along  before  with  less  sleep,  and  thrived  on  it. 
Also  there  must  be  no  more  idle  evenings,  with 
Jimmy  in  the  salon  propped  in  a  chair  and 
Harmony  playing,  the  room  dark  save  for  the 
glow  from  the  stove  and  for  the  one  candle  at 
Harmony's  elbow. 

All  roads  lead  to  Rome.  Peter's  thoughts, 
having  traveled  in  a  circle,  were  back  again  to 
Harmony  the  Desirable  —  Harmony  playing 
in  the  firelight,  Harmony  flushed  over  the  brick 
stove,  Harmony  paring  potatoes  that  night  in 
the  kitchen  when  he  -  -  Harmony !  Harmony  I 

271 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Stewart  knew  all  about  the  accident  and  itfc. 
cause.  Peter  had  surmised  as  much  when  the 
injured  man  failed  to  ask  for  Marie. 

He  tested  him  finally  by  bringing  Marie's 
name  into  the  conversation.  Stewart  ignored  it, 
accepted  her  absence,  refused  to  be  drawn. 

That  was  at  first.  During  the  day,  however, 
as  he  gained  strength,  he  grew  restless  and 
uneasy.  As  the  time  approached  for  Peter  to 
leave,  he  was  clearly  struggling  with  himself. 
The  landlady  had  agreed  to  care  for  him  and 
was  bustling  about  the  room.  During  one  of 
her  absences  he  turned  to  Peter. 

"I  suppose  Marie  has  n't  been  round?" 

"She  came  back  last  night." 

"Did  she  tell  you?" 

"Yes,  poor  child." 

"She's  a  devil!"  Stewart  said,  and  lay  silent. 
Then:  "I  saw  her  shoot  that  thing  out  in  front 
of  us,  but  there  was  no  time  -  Where  is  she 
now?" 

"Marie?   I  sent  her  to  Vienna." 

Stewart  fell  back,  relieved,  not  even  curious. 

"Thank  Heaven  for  that!"  he  said.  "I  don't 
want  to  see  her  again.  I  'd  do  something  I  'd 
be  sorry  for.  The  kindest  thing  to  say  for  her  is 
that  she  was  not  sane." 

"No,"  said  Peter  gravely,  "she  was  hardly 
gane." 

272 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Stewart  caught  his  steady  gaze  and  glanced 
away.  For  him  Marie's  little  tragedy  had  been 
written  and  erased.  He  would  forget  it  mag- 
nanimously. He  had  divided  what  he  had  with 
her,  and  she  had  repaid  him  by  attempting  his 
life.  And  not  only  his  life,  but  Anita's.  Peter 
followed  his  line  of  reasoning  easily. 

"It's  quite  a  frequent  complication,  Stewart," 
he  said,  "but  every  man  to  whom  it  happens 
regards  himself  more  or  less  as  a  victim.  She 
fell  in  love  with  you,  that 's  all.  Her  conduct  is 
contrary  to  the  ethics  of  the  game,  but  she's 
been  playing  poor  cards  all  along." 

"Where  is  she?" 

"That  does  n't  matter,  does  it?" 

Stewart  had  lain  back  and  closed  his  eyes. 
No,  it  didn't  matter.  A  sense  of  great  relief 
overwhelmed  him.  Marie  was  gone,  frightened 
into  hiding.  It  was  as  if  a  band  that  had  been 
about  him  was  suddenly  loosed*  he  breathed 
deep,  he  threw  out  his  arms  and  laughed  from 
sheer  reaction.  Then,  catching  Peter's  not 
particularly  approving  eyes,  he  colored. 

"Good  Lord,  Peter!"  he  said,  "you  don't 
know  what  I  've  gone  through  with  that  little 
devil.  And  now  she 's  gone!"  He  glanced  round 
the  disordered  room,  where  bandages  and 
medicines  crowded  toilet  articles  on  the  dress- 
ing-table, where  one  of  Marie's  small  slippers 

273 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

still  lay  where  it  had  fallen  under  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  where  her  rosary  still  hung  over  the 
corner  of  the  table.  "Ring  for  the  maid,  Peter, 
will  you!  I  Ve  got  to  get  this  junk  out  of  here. 
Some  of  Anita's  people  may  come." 

During  that  afternoon  ride,  while  the  train 
clump-clumped  down  the  mountains,  Peter 
thought  of  all  this.  Some  of  Marie's  "junk" 
was  in  his  bag;  her  rosary  lay  in  his  breast- 
pocket, along  with  the  pin  he  had  sent  her  at 
Christmas.  Peter  happened  on  it,  still  in  its 
box,  which  looked  as  if  it  had  been  cried  over. 
He  had  brought  it  with  him.  He  admired  it 
very  much,  and  it  had  cost  money  he  could  ill 
afford  to  spend. 

It  was  late  when  the  train  drew  into  the  sta- 
tion. Peter,  encumbered  with  Marie's  luggage 
and  his  own,  lowered  his  window  and  added  his 
voice  to  the  chorus  of  plaintive  calls:  "Portier! 
Portier!"  they  shouted.  "Portier!"  bawled 
Peter. 

He  was  obliged  to  resort  to  the  extravagance 
of  a  taxicab.  Possibly  a  fiacre  would  have  done 
as  well,  but  it  cost  almost  as  much  and  was 
slower.  Moments  counted  now:  a  second  was 
an  hour,  an  hour  a  decade.  For  he  was  on  his 
way  to  Harmony.  Extravagance  became  reck- 
lessness. As  soon  die  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb! 
He  stopped  the  taxicab  and  bought  a  bunch  of 

274 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

violets,  stopped  again  and  bought  lilies  of  the 
valley  to  combine  with  the  violets,  went  out  of 
his  way  to  the  American  grocery  and  bought  a 
jar  of  preserved  fruit. 

By  that  time  he  was  laden.  The  jar  of  pre- 
serves hung  in  one  shabby  pocket,  Marie's 
rosary  dangled  from  another;  the  violets 
were  buttoned  under  his  overcoat  against  the 
cold. 

At  the  very  last  he  held  the  taxi  an  extra 
moment  and  darted  into  the  delicatessen  shop 
across  the  Siebensternstrasse.  From  there, 
standing  inside  the  doorway,  he  could  see  the 
lights  in  the  salon  across  the  way,  the  glow  of 
his  lamp,  the  flicker  that  was  the  fire.  Peter 
whistled,  stamped  his  cold  feet,  quite  neglected 

—  in  spite  of  repeated  warnings  from  Harmony 

—  to   watch   the   Herr   Schenkenkaufer   weigh 
the  cheese,   accepted  without  a  glance  a  ten- 
Kronen  piece  with  a  hole  in  it. 

"And  how  is  the  child  to-day?"  asked  the 
Herr  Schenkenkaufer,  covering  the  defective 
gold  piece  with  conversation. 

"I  do  not  know;  I  have  been  away,"  said 
Peter.  He  almost  sang  it. 

"All  is  well  or  I  would  have  heard.  Wilhelm 
the  Portier  was  but  just  now  here." 

"All  well,  of  course,"  sang  Peter,  eyes  on  the 
comfortable  glow  of  his  lamp,  the  flicker  that 

275 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

was  the  fire.  "Auf  wiedersehen,  Herr  Schen- 
kenkaufer." 

"Auf  wiedersehen,  Herr  Doktor." 

Violets,  lilies-of-the-valley,  cheese,  rosary, 
luggage  —  thus  Peter  climbed  the  stairs.  The 
Portier  wished  to  assist  him,  but  Peter  declined. 
The  Portier  was  noisy.  There  was  to  be  a  mo- 
ment when  Peter,  having  admitted  himself  with 
extreme  caution,  would  present  himself  without 
so  much  as  a  creak  to  betray  him,  would  stand 
in  a  doorway  until  some  one,  Harmony  per- 
haps—  ah,  Peter!  —  would  turn  and  see  him. 
She  had  a  way  of  putting  one  slender  hand  over 
her  heart  when  she  was  startled. 

Peter  put  down  the  jar  of  preserved  peaches 
outside.  It  was  to  be  a  second  surprise.  ALo 
he  put  down  the  flowers ;  they  were  to  be  brought 
in  last  of  all.  One  surprise  after  another  is  a 
cumulative  happiness.  Peter  did  not  wish  to 
swallow  all  his  cake  in  one  bite. 

For  once  he  did  not  slam  the  outer  door, 
although  he  very  nearly  did,  and  only  caught  it 
at  the  cost  of  a  bruised  finger.  Inside  he  lis- 
tened. There  was  no  clatter  of  dishes,  no  scurry- 
ing back  and  forth  from  table  to  stove  in  the 
final  excitement  of  dishing  up.  There  was, 
however,  a  highly  agreeable  odor  of  stewing 
chicken,  a  crisp  smell  of  baking  biscuit. 

In  the  darkened  hall  Peter  had  to  pause  to 
276 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

steady  himself.  For  he  had  a  sudden  mad  im- 
pulse to  shout  Harmony's  name,  to  hold  out  his 
arms,  to  call  her  to  him  there  in  the  warm  dark- 
ness, and  when  she  had  come,  to  catch  her  to 
him,  to  tell  his  love  in  one  long  embrace,  his 
arms  about  her,  his  rough  cheek  against  her 
soft  one.  No  wonder  he  grew  somewhat  dizzy 
and  had  to  pull  himself  together. 

The  silence  rather  surprised  him,  until  he 
recalled  that  Harmony  was  probably  sewing 
in  the  salon,  as  she  did  sometimes  when 
dinner  was  ready  to  serve.  The  boy  was 
asleep,  no  doubt.  He  stole  along  on  tiptoe, 
hardly  breathing,  to  the  first  doorway,  which 
was  Jimmy's. 

Jimmy  was  asleep.  Round  him  were  the  pink 
and  yellow  and  white  flower  fairies  with  violet 
heads.  Peter  saw  them  and  smiled.  Then,  his 
eyes  growing  accustomed  to  the  light,  he  saw 
Marie,  face  down  on  the  floor,  her  head  on  her 
arms.  Still  as  she  was,  Peter  knew  she  was  not 
sleeping,  only  fighting  her  battle  over  again 
and  losing. 

Some  of  the  joyousness  of  his  return  fled  from 
Peter,  never  to  come  back.  The  two  silent 
figures  were  too  close  to  tragedy.  Peter,  with  a 
long  breath,  stole  past  the  door  and  on  to  the 
salon.  No  Harmony  there,  but  the  great  room 
was  warm  and  cheery.  The  table  was  drawn 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

near  the  stove  and  laid  for  Abendessen.  The 
white  porcelain  coffee-pot  had  boiled  and 
extinguished  itself,  according  to  its  method, 
and  now  gently  steamed. 

On  to  the  kitchen.  Much  odor  of  food  here, 
two  candles  lighted  but  burning  low,  a  small 
platter  with  money  on  it,  quite  a  little  money 
—  almost  all  he  had  left  Harmony  when  he 
went  away. 

Peter  was  dazed  at  first.  Even  when  Marie, 
hastily  summoned,  had  discovered  that  Har- 
mony's clothing  was  gone,  when  a  search  of  the 
rooms  revealed  the  absence  of  her  violin  and 
her  music,  when  at  last  the  fact  stared  them, 
incontestable,  in  the  face,  Peter  refused  to 
accept  it.  He  sat  for  a  half-hour  or  even  more 
by  the  fire  in  the  salon,  obstinately  refusing  to 
believe  she  was  gone,  keeping  the  supper  warm 
against  her  return.  Pie  did  not  think  or  reason; 
he  sat  and  waited,  saying  nothing,  hardly  mov- 
ing, save  when  a  gust  of  wind  slammed  the 
garden  gate.  Then  he  was  all  alive,  sat  erect, 
ears  straining  for  her  hand  on  the  knob  of  the 
outer  door. 

The  numbness  of  the  shock  passed  at  last, 
to  be  succeeded  by  alarm.  During  all  the  time 
that  followed,  that  condition  persisted,  fright, 
almost  terror.  Harmony  alone  in  the  city, 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

helpless,  dependent,  poverty-stricken.  Har- 
mony seeking  employment  under  conditions 
Peter  knew  too  well.  But  with  his  alarm  came 
rage. 

Marie  had  never  seen  Peter  angry.  She 
shrank  from  this  gaunt  and  gray -faced  man  who 
raved  up  and  down  the  salon,  questioning  the 
frightened  Portier,  swearing  fierce  oaths,  bring- 
ing accusation  after  accusation  against  some 
unnamed  woman  to  whom  he  applied  epithets 
that  Marie's  English  luckily  did  not  compre- 
hend. Not  a  particularly  heroic  figure  was 
Peter  that  night :  a  frantic,  disheveled  individual, 
before  \vhom  the  Portier  cowered,  who  struggled 
back  to  sanity  through  a  berserk  haze  and  was 
liable  to  swift  relapses  into  fury  again. 

To  this  succeeded  at  last  the  mental  condi- 
tion that  was  to  be  Peter's  for  many  days, 
hopelessness  and  alarm  and  a  grim  determina- 
tion to  keep  on  searching. 

There  were  no  clues.  The  Portier  made 
inquiries  of  all  the  cabstands  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. Harmony  had  not  taken  a  cab.  The 
delicatessen  seller  had  seen  her  go  out  that 
afternoon  with  a  bundle  and  return  without 
it.  She  had  been  gone  only  an  hour  or  so.  That 
gave  Peter  a  ray  of  hope  that  she  might  have 
found  a  haven  in  the  neighborhood  —  until  he 
recalled  the  parcel-post. 

279 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

One  possibility  he  clung  to:  Mrs.  Boyer  had 
made  the  mischief,  but  she  had  also  offered  the 
girl  a  home.  She  might  be  at  the  Boyers'. 
Peter,  flinging  on  a  hat  and  without  his  overcoat, 
went  to  the  Boyers'.  Time  was  valuable,  and 
he  had  wasted  an  hour,  two  hours,  in  useless 
rage.  So  he  took  a  taxicab,  and  being  by  this 
time  utterly  reckless  of  cost  let  it  stand  while  he 
interviewed  the  Boyers. 

Boyer  himself,  partially  undressed,  opened 
the  door  to  his  ring.  Peter  was  past  explanation 
or  ceremonial. 

"Is  Harmony  here?"  he  demanded. 

"Harmony?" 

"Harmony  Wells.    She's  disappeared,  miss- 

ing." 

"Come  in,"  said  Boyer,  alive  to  the  strain 
in  Peter's  voice.  "I  don't  know,  I  haven't 
heard  anything.  I'll  ask  Mrs.  Boyer." 

During  the  interval  it  took  for  a  whispered 
colloquy  in  the  bedroom,  and  for  Mrs.  Boyer 
to  don  her  flannel  wrapper,  Peter  suffered  the 
tortures  of  the  damned.  Whatever  Mrs.  Boyer 
had  meant  to  say  by  way  of  protest  at  the  in- 
trusion on  the  sacred  privacy  of  eleven  o'clock 
and  bedtime  died  in  her  throat.  Pier  plump 
and  terraced  chin  shook  with  agitation,  perhaps 
with  guilt.  Peter,  however,  had  got  himself  in 
hand.  He  told  a  quiet  story;  Boyer  listened - 

280 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Mrs.  Boyer,  clutching  her  wrapper  about  her 
unstayed  figure,  listened. 

"I  thought,"  finished  Peter,  "that  since  you 
had  offered  her  a  refuge  —  from  me  —  she 
might  have  come  here." 

"I  offered  her  a  refuge  —  before  I  had  been 
to  the  Pension  Schwarz." 

"Ah!"  said  Peter  slowly.  "And  what  about 
the  Pension  Schwarz?" 

"Need  you  ask?   I  learned  that  you  were  all 
put  out  there.    I  am  obliged  to  say,  Dr.  Byrne, 
that  under  the  circumstances  had  the  girl  come 
here  I  could  hardly  -      Frank,  I  will  speak !  - 
I  could  hardly  have  taken  her  in." 

Peter  went  white  and  ducked  as  from  a 
physical  blo\v,  stumbling  out  into  the  hall  again. 
There  he  thought  of  something  to  say  in  reply, 
repudiation,  thought  better  of  it,  started  down 
the  stairs. 

Boyer  followed  him  helplessly.  At  the  street 
door,  however,  he  put  his  hand  on  Peter's 
shoulder.  "You  know,  old  man,  I  don't  believe 
that.  These  women  - 

"I  know,"  said  Peter  simply.  "Thank  you. 
Good-night." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

HARMONY'S  only  thought  had  been  flight, 
from  Peter,  from  McLean,  from  Mrs. 
Boyer.  She  had  devoted  all  her  energies  to  los- 
ing herself,  to  cutting  the  threads  that  bound 
her  to  the  life  in  the  Siebensternstrasse.  She 
had  drawn  all  her  money,  as  Peter  discovered 
later.  The  discovery  caused  him  even  more 
acute  anxiety.  The  city  was  full  of  thieves; 
poverty  and  its  companion,  crime,  lurked  on 
every  shadowy  staircase  of  the  barracklike 
houses,  or  peered,  red-eyed,  from  every  alley- 
way. 

And  into  this  city  of  contrasts  —  of  gray 
women  of  the  night  hugging  gratings  for  warmth 
and  accosting  passers-by  with  loathsome  ges- 
tures, of  smug  civilians  hiding  sensuous  mouths 
under  great  mustaches,  of  dapper  soldiers  to 
whom  the  young  girl  unattended  was  potential 
prey,  into  this  night  city  of  terror,  this  day  city 
of  frightful  contrasts,  ermine  rubbing  elbows 
with  frost-nipped  flesh,  destitution  sauntering 
along  the  fashionable  Prater  for  lack  of  shelter, 
gilt  wheels  of  royalty  and  yellow  wheels  of 

282 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

courtesans  —  Harmony  had  ventured  alone  for 
the  second  time. 

And  this  time  there  was  no  Peter  Byrne  to 
accost  her  cheerily  in  the  twilight  and  win  her 
by  sheer  friendliness.  She  was  alone.  Her  funds 
were  lower,  much  lower.  And  something  else 
had  gone  —  her  faith.  Mrs.  Boyer  had  seen 
to  that.  In  the  autumn  Harmony  had  faced  the 
city  clear-eyed  and  unafraid;  now  she  feared  it, 
met  it  with  averted  eyes,  alas!  understood  it. 

It  was  not  the  Harmony  who  had  bade  a 
brave  farewell  to  Scatchy  and  the  Big  Soprano  in 
the  station  who  fled  to  her  refuge  on  the  upper 
floor  of  the  house  in  the  Wollbadgasse.  This  was 
a  hunted  creature,  alternately  flushed  and  pale, 
who  locked  her  door  behind  her  before  she  took 
off  her  hat,  and  who,  having  taken  off  her  hat 
and  surveyed  her  hiding-place  with  tragic  eyes, 
fell  suddenly  to  trembling,  alone  there  in  the 
gaslight. 

She  had  had  no  plans  beyond  flight.  She 
had  meant,  once  alone,  to  think  the  thing  out. 
But  the  room  was  cold,  she  had  had  nothing  to 
eat,  and  the  single  slovenly  maid  was  a  Hun- 
garian and  spoke  no  German.  The  dressmaker 
had  gone  to  the  Ronacher.  Harmony  did  not 
know  where  to  find  a  restaurant,  was  afraid  to 
trust  herself  to  the  streets  alone.  She  went 
to  bed  supperless,  with  a  tiny  picture  of  Peter 

283 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Jimmy  and  the  wooden  sentry  under  her 
cheek. 

The  pigeons,  cooing  on  the  window-sill, 
wakened  her  early.  She  was  confused  at  first, 
got  up  to  see  if  Jimmy  had  thrown  off  his  blan- 
kets, and  wakened  to  full  consciousness  with  the 
sickening  realization  that  Jimmy  was  not  there. 

The  dressmaker,  whose  name  was  Monia 
Reiff,  slept  late  after  her  evening  out.  Har- 
mony, collapsing  with  hunger  and  faintness, 
waited  as  long  as  she  could.  Then  she  put  on 
her  things  desperately  and  ventured  out.  Surely 
at  this  hour  Peter  would  not  be  searching,  and 
even  if  he  were  he  would  never  think  of  the  six- 
teenth district.  He  would  make  inquiries,  of 
course  -  —  the  Pension  Schwarz,  Boyers',  the 
master's. 

The  breakfast  brought  back  her  strength 
and  the  morning  air  gave  her  confidence.  The 
district,  too,  was  less  formidable  than  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  Karntnerstrasse  and  the  Graben. 
The  shops  were  smaller.  The  windows  exhibited 
cheaper  goods.  There  was  a  sort  of  family 
atmosphere  about  many  of  them;  the  head  of 
the  establishment  in  the  doorway,  the  wife  at 
the  cashier's  desk,  daughters,  cousins,  nieces 
behind  the  wooden  counters.  The  shopkeepers 
were  approachable,  instead  of  familiar.  Har- 
mony met  no  rebuffs,  was  respectfully  greeted 

284 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  cheerfully  listened  to.  In  many  cases  the 
application  ended  in  a  general  consultation, 
shopkeeper,  wife,  daughters,  nieces,  slim  clerks 
with  tiny  mustaches.  She  got  addresses,  fol- 
lowed them  up,  more  consultations,  more  ad- 
dresses, but  no  work.  The  reason  dawned  on 
her  after  a  day  of  tramping,  during  which  she 
kept  carefully  away  from  that  part  of  the  city 
where  Peter  might  be  searching  for  her. 

The  fact  was,  of  course,  that  her  knowledge 
of  English  was  her  sole  asset  as  a  clerk.  And 
there  were  few  English  and  no  tourists  in  the 
sixteenth  district.  She  was  marketing  a  com- 
modity for  which  there  was  no  demand. 

She  lunched  at  a  Konditorei,  more  to  rest 
her  tired  body  than  because  she  needed  food. 
The  afternoon  was  as  the  morning.  At  six 
o'clock,  long  after  the  midwinter  darkness  had 
fallen,  she  stumbled  back  to  the  Wollbadgasse 
and  up  the  whitewashed  staircase. 

She  had  a  shock  at  the  second  landing.  A 
man  had  stepped  into  the  angle  to  let  her  pass. 
A  gasjet  flared  over  his  head,  and  she  recognized 
the  short  heavy  figure  and  ardent  eyes  of 
Georgiev.  She  had  her  veil  down  luckily,  and 
he  gave  no  sign  of  recognition.  She  passed 
on,  and  she  heard  him  a  second  later  descending. 
But  there  had  been  something  reminiscent  after 
all  in  her  figure  and  carriage.  The  little  Georgiev 

285 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

paused,  halfway  down,  and  thought  a  moment. 
It  was  impossible,  of  course.  All  women  re- 
minded him  of  the  American.  Had  he  not,  only 
the  day  before,  followed  for  two  city  blocks  a 
woman  old  enough  to  be  his  mother,  merely 
because  she  carried  a  violin  case?  But  there 
was  something  about  the  girl  he  had  just  passed 
-Bah! 

A  bad  week  for  Harmony  followed,  a  week  of 
weary  days  and  restless  nights  when  she  slept 
only  to  dream  of  Peter  —  of  his  hurt  and  in- 
credulous eyes  when  he  found  she  had  gone; 
of  Jimmy  —  that  he  needed  her,  was  worse, 
was  dying.  More  than  once  she  heard  him 
sobbing  and  wakened  to  the  cooing  of  the  pi- 
geons on  the  window-sill.  She  grew  thin  and 
sunken-eyed;  took  to  dividing  her  small  hoard, 
half  of  it  with  her,  half  under  the  carpet,  so 
that  in  case  of  accident  all  would  not  be  gone. 

This,  as  it  happened,  was  serious.  One  day, 
the  sixth,  she  came  back  wet  to  the  skin  from 
an  all-day  rain,  to  find  that  the  carpet  bank 
had  been  looted.  There  was  no  clue.  The  stolid 
Hungarian,  startled  out  of  her  lethargy,  pro- 
tested innocence;  the  little  dressmaker,  who 
seemed  honest  and  friendly,  wept  in  sheer 
sympathy.  The  fact  remained  —  half  the  small 
hoard  was  gone. 

286 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Two  days  more,  a  Sunday  and  a  Monday. 
On  Sunday  Harmony  played,  and  Georgiev 
in  the  room  below,  translating  into  cipher  a 
recent  conference  between  the  Austrian  Minister 
of  War  and  the  German  Ambassador,  put  aside 
his  work  and  listened.  She  played,  as  once 
before  she  had  played  when  life  seemed  sad  and 
tragic,  the  "Humoresque."  Georgiev,  hands 
behind  his  head  and  eyes  upturned,  was  back 
in  the  Pension  Schwarz  that  night  months  ago 
when  Harmony  played  the  "Humoresque"  and 
Peter  stooped  outside  her  door.  The  little  Bul- 
garian sighed  and  dreamed. 

Harmony,  a  little  sadder,  a  little  more  forlorn 
each  day,  pursued  her  hopeless  quest.  She 
ventured  into  the  heart  of  the  Stadt  and  paid  a 
part  of  her  remaining  money  to  an  employment 
bureau,  to  teach  English  or  violin,  whichever 
offered,  or  even  both.  After  she  had  paid  they 
told  her  it  would  be  difficult,  almost  impossible, 
without  references.  She  had  another  narrow 
escape  as  she  was  leaving.  She  almost  collided 
with  Olga,  the  chambermaid,  who,  having 
clashed  for  the  last  time  with  Katrina,  was  seek- 
ing new  employment.  On  another  occasion  she 
saw  Marie  in  the  crowd  and  was  obsessed  with 
a  longing  to  call  to  her,  to  ask  for  Peter,  for 
Jimmy.  That  meeting  took  the  heart  out  of  the 
girl.  7-Iarie  was  white  and  weary  —  perhaps  the 

287 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

boy  was  worse.  Perhaps  Peter  -  Her  heart 
contracted.  But  that  was  absurd,  of  course; 
Peter  was  always  well  and  strong. 

Two  things  occurred  that  week,  one  un- 
expected, the  other  inevitable.  The  unexpected 
occurrence  was  that  Monia  Reiff,  finding  Har- 
mony being  pressed  for  work,  offered  the  girl  a 
situation.  The  wage  was  small,  but  she  could 
live  on  it. 

The  inevitable  was  that  she  met  Georgiev 
on  the  stairs  without  her  veil. 

It  was  the  first  day  in  the  workroom.  The 
apprentices  were  carrying  home  boxes  for  a 
ball  that  night.  Thread  was  needed,  and 
quickly.  Harmony,  who  did  odds  and  ends  of 
sewing,  was  most  easily  spared.  She  slipped  011 
her  jacket  and  hat  and  ran  down  to  the  shop 
near  by. 

It  was  on  the  return  that  she  met  Georgiev 
coming  down.  The  afternoon  was  dark  and  the 
staircase  unlighted.  In  the  gloom  one  face  was 
as  another.  Georgiev,  listening  intently,  hear- 
ing footsteps,  drew  back  into  the  embrasure  of 
a  window  and  waited.  His  swarthy  face  was 
tense,  expectant.  As  the  steps  drew  near,  were 
light  feminine  instead  of  stealthy,  the  little 
spy  relaxed  somewhat.  But  still  he  waited, 
crouched. 

It  was  a  second  before  he  recognized  Har- 
288 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

mony,  another  instant  before  he  realized  his 
good  fortune.  She  had  almost  passed.  He  put 
out  an  unsteady  hand. 

"Fraulein!" 

"Herr  Georgiev!" 

The  little  Bulgarian  was  profoundly  stirred. 
His  fervid  eyes  gleamed.  He  struggled  against 
the  barrier  of  language,  broke  out  in  passionate 
Bulgar,  switched  to  German  punctuated  with 
an  English  word  here  and  there.  Made  intelli- 
gible, it  was  that  he  had  found  her  at  last. 
Harmony  held  her  spools  of  thread  and  waited 
for  the  storm  of  languages  to  subside.  Then :  - 

"But  you  are  not  to  say  you  have  seen  me, 
Herr  Georgiev." 

"No?" 

Harmony  colored. 

"I  am  —  am  hiding,"  she  explained.  "Some- 
thing very  uncomfortable  happened  and  I 
came  here.  Please  don't  say  you  have  seen 
me." 

Georgiev  was  puzzled  at  first.  She  had  to 
explain  very  slowly,  with  his  ardent  eyes  on  her. 
But  he  understood  at  last  and  agreed  of  course. 
His  incredulity  was  turning  to  certainty.  Har- 
mony had  actually  been  in  the  same  building 
with  him  while  he  sought  her  everywhere  else. 

"Then,"  he  said  at  last,  "it  was  you  who 
played  Sunday." 

289 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I  surely." 

She  made  a  move  to  pass  him,  but  he  held  out 
an  imploring  hand. 

"Fraulein,  I  may  see  you  sometimes?" 

"We  shall  meet  again,  of  course." 

"Fraulein,  —  with  all  respect,  —  sometime 
perhaps  you  will  walk  out  with  me?" 

"  I  am  very  busy  all  day." 

"At  night,  then?  For  the  exercise?  I,  with 
all  respect,  Fraulein!" 

Harmony  was  touched. 

"Sometime,"  she  consented.  And  then  im- 
pulsively: "I  am  very  lonely,  Herr  Georgiev." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  the  little  Bul- 
garian bent  over  it  and  kissed  it  reverently.  The 
Herr  Georgiev's  father  was  a  nobleman  in  his 
own  country,  and  all  the  little  spy's  training 
had  been  to  make  of  a  girl  in  Harmony's  situa- 
tion lawful  prey.  But  in  the  spy's  glowing  heart 
there  was  nothing  for  Harmony  to  fear.  She 
knew  it.  He  stood,  hat  in  hand,  while  she  went 
up  the  staircase.  Then :  — 

"Fraulein!"  anxiously. 

"Yes?" 

"Was  there  below  at  the  entrance  a  tall  man 
in  a  green  velours  hat?" 

"I  saw  no  one  there." 

"I  thank  you,  Fraulein." 

He  watched  her  slender  figure  ascend,  lose 
290 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

itself  in  the  shadows,  listened  until  she  reached 
the  upper  floors.  Then  with  a  sigh  he  clapped 
his  hat  on  his  head  and  made  his  cautious  way 
down  to  the  street.  There  was  no  man  in  a 
green  velours  hat  below,  but  the  little  spy  had 
an  uneasy  feeling  that  eyes  watched  him,  never- 
theless. Life  was  growing  complicated  for  the 
Herr  Georgiev. 

Life  was  pressing  very  close  to  Harmony  also 
in  those  days,  a  life  she  had  never  touched  before. 
She  discovered,  after  a  day  or  two  in  the  work- 
room, that  Monia  Reiff  s  business  lay  almost 
altogether  among  the  demi-monde.  The  sewing- 
girls,  of  Marie's  type  many  of  them,  found  in 
the  customers  endless  topics  of  conversation. 
Some  things  Harmony  was  spared,  much  of  the 
talk  being  in  dialect.  But  a  great  deal  of  it  she 
understood,  and  she  learned  much  that  was  not 
spoken.  They  talked  freely  of  the  women,  their 
clothes,  and  they  talked  a  great  deal  about  a 
newcomer,  an  American  dancer,  for  whom  Monia 
was  making  an  elaborate  outfit.  The  American's 
name  was  Lillian  Le  Grande.  She  was  dancing 
at  one  of  the  variety  theaters. 

Harmony  was  working  on  a  costume  for  the 
Le  Grande  woman  —  a  gold  brocade  slashed 
to  the  knee  at  one  side  and  with  a  fragment  of 
bodice  made  of  gilt  tissue.  On  the  day  after 
her  encounter  with  Georgiev  she  met  her. 

291 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

There  was  a  dispute  over  the  gown,  something 
about  the  draping.  Monia,  flushed  with  irri- 
tation, came  to  the  workroom  door  and  glanced 
over  the  girls.  She  singled  out  Harmony 
finally  and  called  her. 

"Come  and  put  on  the  American's  gown,5' 
she  ordered.  "She  wishes  —  Heaven  knows 
what  she  wishes!" 

Harmony  went  unwillingly.  Nothing  she 
had  heard  of  the  Fraulein  Le  Grande  had  pre- 
possessed her.  Her  uneasiness  was  increased 
when  she  found  herself  obliged  to  shed  her  gown 
and  to  stand  for  one  terrible  moment  before 
the  little  dressmaker's  amused  eyes. 

"Thou  art  very  lovely,  very  chic,"  said  Monia. 
The  dress  added  to  rather  than  relieved  Har- 
mony's discomfiture.  She  donned  it  in  one  of 
the  fitting-rooms,  made  by  the  simple  expedient 
of  curtaining  off  a  corner  of  the  large  reception 
room.  The  slashed  skirt  embarrassed  her;  the 
low  cut  made  her  shrink.  Monia  was  frankly 
entranced.  Above  the  gold  tissue  of  the  bodice 
rose  Harmony's  exquisite  shoulders.  Her  hair 
was  gold;  even  her  eyes  looked  golden.  The 
dressmaker,  who  worshiped  beauty,  gave  a  pull 
here,  a  pat  there.  If  only  all  women  were  so 
beautiful  in  the  things  she  made! 

She  had  an  eye  for  the  theatrical  also.  She 
posed  Harmony  behind  the  curtain,  arranged 

292 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

lights,  drew  down  the  chiffon  so  that  a  bit  more 
of  the  girl's  rounded  bosom  was  revealed. 
Then  she  drew  the  curtain  aside  and  stood 
smiling. 

Le  Grande  paid  the  picture  the  tribute  of  a 
second's  silence,  Then:  — 

"Exquisite!"  she  said  in  English.  Then  in 
halting  German:  "Do  not  change  a  line.  It 
is  perfect." 

Harmony  must  walk  iii  the  gown,  turn,  sit. 
Once  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  herself  and  was 
startled.  She  had  been  wearing  black  for  so 
long,  and  now  this  radiant  golden  creature  was 
herself.  She  was  enchanted  and  abashed.  The 
slash  in  the  skirt  troubled  her:  her  slender  leg 
had  a  way  of  revealing  itself. 

The  ordeal  was  over  at  last.  The  dancer 
was  pleased.  She  ordered  another  gown.  Har- 
mony, behind  the  curtain,  slipped  out  of  the 
dress  and  into  her  o\vn  shabby  frock.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  curtain  the  dancer  was  talking. 
Her  voice  was  loud,  but  rather  agreeable.  She 
smoked  a  cigarette.  Scraps  of  chatter  came  to 
Harmony,  and  once  a  laugh. 

"That  is  too  pink  —  something  more  deli- 
•t-ate." 

"Here  is  a  shade;  hold  it  to  your  cheek." 

"I  am  a  bad  color.  I  did  not  sleep  last  night.'' 

"  Still  no  news,  Fraulein?" 
293 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"None.  He  has  disappeared  utterly.  That 
is  n't  so  bad,  is  it?  I  could  use  more  rouge." 

"It  is  being  much  worn.  It  is  strange,  is  it 
not,  that  a  child  could  be  stolen  from  the  hos- 
pital and  leave  no  sign!" 

The  dancer  laughed  a  mirthless  laugh.  Her 
voice  changed,  became  nasal,  full  of  venom. 

"Oh,  they  know  well  enough,"  she  snapped. 
"Those  nurses  know,  and  there's  a  pig  of  a 
red-bearded  doctor  -  -  T  'd  like  to  poison  him. 
Separating  mother  and  child !  I  'm  going  to  find 
him,  if  only  to  show  them  they  are  not  so  smart 
after  all." 

In  her  anger  she  had  lapsed  into  English. 
Harmony,  behind  her  curtain,  had  clutched  at 
her  heart.  Jimmy's  mother! 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

JIMMY  was  not  so  well,  although  Harmony's 
flight  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  relapse. 
He  had  found  Marie  a  slavishly  devoted  sub 
stitute,  and  besides  Peter  had  indicated  that 
Harmony's  absence  was  purely  temporary.  But 
the  breaking-up  was  inevitable.  All  day  long 
the  child  lay  in  the  white  bed,  apathetic  but 
sleepless.  In  vain  Marie  made  flower  fairies  for 
his  pillow,  in  vain  the  little  mice,  now  quite 
tame,  played  hide-and-seek  over  the  bed,  in 
vain  Peter  paused  long  enough  in  his  frantic 
search  for  Harmony  to  buy  colored  postcards 
and  bring  them  to  him. 

He  was  contented  enough;  he  did  not  suffer 
at  all;  and  he  had  no  apprehension  of  what  was 
coming.  He  asked  for  nothing,  tried  obediently 
to  eat,  liked  to  have  Marie  in  the  room.  But 
he  did  not  beg  to  be  taken  into  the  salon,  as 
he  once  had  done.  There  was  a  sort  of  mental 
confusion  also.  He  liked  Marie  to  read  his 
father's  letters;  but  as  he  grew  weaker  the  occa- 
sional confusing  of  Peter  with  his  dead  father 
became  a  fixed  idea.  Peter  was  Daddy. 

Peter  took  care  of  him  at  night.    He  had 
295 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

moved  into  Harmony's  adjacent  room  and 
dressed  there.  But  he  had  never  slept  in  the 
bed.  At  night  he  put  on  his  shabby  dressing- 
gown  and  worn  slippers  and  lay  on  a  haircloth 
sofa  at  the  foot  of  Jimmy's  bed  —  lay  but  hardly 
slept,  so  afraid  was  he  that  the  slender  thread 
of  life  might  snap  when  it  was  drawn  out  to 
its  slenderest  during  the  darkest  hours  before 
the  dawn.  More  than  once  in  every  night  Peter 
rose  and  stood,  hardly  breathing,  with  the  tiny 
lamp  in  his  hand,  watching  for  the  rise  and  fall 
of  the  boy's  thin  little  chest.  Peter  grew  old 
these  days.  He  turned  gray  over  the  ears  and 
developed  lines  about  his  mouth  that  never 
left  him  again.  He  felt  gray  and  old,  and  some- 
times bitter  and  hard  also.  The  boy's  condition 
could  not  be  helped:  it  was  inevitable,  hopeless , 
But  the  thing  that  was  eating  his  heart  out  had 
been  unnecessary  and  cruel. 

Where  was  Harmony?  When  it  stormed,  as  iV 
did  almost  steadily,  he  wondered  how  she  was 
sheltered;  when  the  occasional  sun  shone  he 
hoped  it  was  bringing  her  a  bit  of  cheer.  Now 
and  then,  in  the  nfrght,  when  the  lamp  burned 
low  and  gusts  of  wTind  shook  the  old  house, 
fearful  thoughts  came  to  him  — •  the  canal,  with 
its  filthy  depths.  Daylight  brought  reason, 
however.  Harmony  -had  been  too  rational,  too* 
sane  for  such  an  end. 

296 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

McLean  was  Peter's  great  support  in  those 
terrible  days.  He  was  young  and  hopeful.  Also 
he  had  money.  Peter  could  not  afford  to  grease 
the  machinery  of  the  police  service;  McLean 
could  and  did.  In  Berlin  Harmony  could  not 
have  remained  hidden  for  two  days.  In  Vienna, 
however,  it  was  different.  Returns  were  made 
to  the  department,  but  irregularly.  An  Ameri- 
can music  student  was  missing.  There  were 
thousands  of  American  music  students  in  the 
city:  one  fell  over  them  in  the  coffee-houses. 
McLean  offered  a  reward  and  followed  up  in- 
numerable music  students. 

The  alternating  hope  and  despair  was  most 
trying.  Peter  became  old  and  haggard;  the  boy 
grew  thin  and  white.  But  there  was  this  dif- 
ference, that  with  Peter  the  strain  was  cumu- 
lative, hour  on  hour,  day  on  day.  With  McLean 
each  night  found  him  worn  and  exhausted,  but 
each  following  morning  he  went  to  work  with 
renewed  strength  and  energy.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  the  iron  had  not  struck  so  deep  into  his 
soul.  With  Peter  it  was  a  life-and-death  matter. 

Clinics  and  lectures  had  begun  again,  but  he 
had  no  heart  for  work.  The  little  household 
went  on  methodically.  Marie  remained;  there 
had  seemed  nothing  else  to  do.  She  cooked 
Peter's  food  —  what  little  he  would  eat:  she 
nursed  Jimmy  while  Peter  was  out  on  the  long 

297 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

search;  and  she  kept  the  apartment  neat.  She 
was  never  intrusive,  never  talkative.  Indeed, 
she  seemed  to  have  lapsed  into  definite  silence. 
She  deferred  absolutely  to  Peter,  adored  him, 
indeed,  from  afar.  She  never  ate  with  him,  in 
spite  of  his  protests. 

The  little  apartment  was  very  quiet.  Where 
formerly  had  been  music  and  Harmony's  soft 
laughter,  where  Anna  Gates  had  been  wont  to 
argue  with  Peter  in  loud,  incisive  tones,  where 
even  the  prisms  of  the  chandelier  had  once 
vibrated  in  response  to  Harmony's  violin,  al- 
most absolute  silence  now  reigned.  Even  the 
gate,  having  been  repaired,  no  longer  creaked, 
and  the  loud  altercations  between  the  Portier 
and  his  wife  had  been  silenced  out  of  deference 
to  the  sick  child. 

On  the  day  that  Harmony,  in  the  gold  dress, 
had  discovered  Jimmy's  mother  in  the  American 
dancer  Peter  had  had  an  unusually  bad  day. 
McLean  had  sent  him  a  note  by  messenger  early 
in  the  morning,  to  the  effect  that  a  young  girl 
answering  Harmony's  description  had  been 
seen  in  the  park  at  Schonbrunn  and  traced  to 
an  apartment  near  by. 

Harmony  had  liked  Schonbrunn,  and  it 
seemed  possible.  They  had  gone  out  together, 
McLean  optimistic,  Peter  afraid  to  hope.  And 
it  had  been  as  he  feared  —  a  pretty  little  violin 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

student,  indeed,  who  had  been  washing  her  hairs 
and  only  opened  the  door  an  inch  or  two. 
McLean  made  a  lame  apology,  Peter  too  sick 
with  disappointment  to  speak.  Then  back  to 
the  city  again. 

He  had  taken  to  making  a  daily  round,  to 
the  master's,  to  the  Frau  Professor  Bergmeis- 
ter's,  along  the  Graben  and  the  Karntnerstrasse, 
ending  up  at  the  Doctors'  Club  in  the  faint 
hope  of  a  letter.  Wrath  still  smouldered  deep 
in  Peter;  he  would  not  enter  a  room  at  the  club 
if  Mrs.  Boyer  sat  within.  He  had  had  a  long 
hour  with  Dr.  Jennings,  and  left  that  cheerful 
person  writhing  in  abasement.  And  he  had  held 
a  stormy  interview  with  the  Frau  Schwarz, 
which  left  her  humble  for  a  week,  and  exceed- 
ingly nervous,  being  of  the  impression  from 
Peter's  manner  that  in  the  event  of  Harmony 
not  turning  up  an  American  gunboat  would 
sail  up  the  right  arm  of  the  Danube  and  bom- 
bard the  Pension  Schwarz. 

Schonbrunn  having  failed  them,  McLean  and 
Peter  went  back  to  the  city  in  the  street-car, 
neither  one  saying  much.  Even  McLean's 
elasticity  was  deserting  him.  His  eyes,  from 
much  peering  into  crowds,  had  taken  on  a 
strained,  concentrated  look. 

Peter  was  shabbier  than  ever  beside  the  other 
man's  ultra-fashionable  dress.  He  sat,  bent 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

forward,  his  long  arms  dangling  between  his 
knees,  his  head  down.  Their  common  trouble 
had  drawn  the  two  together,  or  had  drawn 
McLean  close  to  Peter,  as  if  he  recognized  that 
there  were  degrees  in  grief  and  that  Peter  had 
received  almost  a  death-wound.  His  old  rage 
at  Peter  had  died.  Harmony's  flight  had  proved 
the  situation  as  no  amount  of  protestation  would 
have  done.  The  thing  now  was  to  find  the  girl; 
then  he  and  Peter  would  start  even,  and  the 
buttle  to  the  best  man. 

They  had  the  car  almost  to  themselves.  Peter 
iic.4  not  spoken  since  he  sat  down.  McLean 
wcs  busy  over  a  notebook,  in  which  he  jotted 
down  from  day  to  day  such  details  of  their 
search  as  might  be  worth  keeping.  Now  and 
then  he  glanced  at  Peter  as  if  he  wished  to  say 
something,  hesitated,  fell  to  work  again  over 
the  notebook.  Finally  he  ventured. 

"How's  the  boy?" 

"  Not  so  well  to-day.  I  'm  having  a  couple  of 
men  in  to  see  him  to-night.  He  does  n't  sleep." 

"Do  you  sleep?" 

"Not  much.    He's  on  my  mind,  of  course." 

That  and  other  things,  Peter. 

"  Don't  you  think  —  would  n't  it  be  better 
to  have  a  nurse.  You  can't  go  like  this  all  day 
and  be  up  all  night,  you  know.  And  Marie  has 
him  most  of  the  day."  McLean,  of  course,  had 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

known  Marie  before.  "The  boy  ought  to  have  a 
nurse,  I  think." 

"He  does  n't  move  without  my  hearing  him." 

'That's  an  argument  for  me.  Do  you  want 
to  get  sick?" 

Peter  turned  a  white  face  toward  McLean, 
a  face  in  which  exasperation  struggled  with 
fatigue. 

"Good  Lord,  boy,"  he  rasped,  "don't  you 
suppose  I  'd  have  a  nurse  if  I  could  afford  it?" 

"  Would  you  let  me  help?  I  'd  like  to  do  some- 
thing. I  'm  a  useless  cub  in  a  sick-room,  but  I 
could  do  that.  Who  's  the  woman  he  liked  in 
the  hospital?" 

"  Nurse  Elisabet.  I  don't  know,  Mac.  There's 
no  reason  why  I  should  n't  let  you  help,  I  sup- 
pose. It  hurts,  of  course,  but  —  if  he  would  be 
happier  — " 

"That 's  settled,  then,"  said  McLean.  "Nurse 
Elisabet,  if  she  can  come.  And  —  look  here,  old 
man.  I  've  been  trying  to  say  this  for  a  week  and 
have  n't  had  the  nerve.  Let  me  help  you  out  for 
a  while.  You  can  send  it  back  when  you  get  it, 
any  time,  a  year  or  ten  years.  I  '11  not  miss  it." 

But  Peter  refused.  He  tempered  the  refusal 
in  his  kindly  way. 

"I  can't  take  anything  now,"  he  said.  "But 
I  '11  remember  it,  and  if  things  get  very  bad  I  '11 
•come  to  you.  It  is  n't  costing  much  to  live. 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Marie  is  a  good  manager,  almost  as  good  as  — 
Harmony  was."  This  with  difficulty.  He  found 
it  always  hard  to  speak  of  Harmony.  His 
throat  seemed  to  close  on  the  name. 

That  was  the  best  McLean  could  do,  but  he 
made  a  mental  reservation  to  see  Marie  that 
night  and  slip  her  a  little  money.  Peter  need 
never  know,  would  never  notice. 

At  a  cross-street  the  car  stopped,  and  the 
little  Bulgarian,  Georgiev,  got  on.  He  inspected 
the  car  carefully  before  he  came  in  from  the 
platform,  and  sat  down  unobtrusively  in  a 
corner.  Things  were  not  going  well  with  him 
either.  His  small  black  eyes  darted  from  face 
to  face  suspiciously,  until  they  came  to  a  rest 
on  Peter. 

It  was  Georgiev's  business  to  read  men. 
Quickly  he  put  together  the  bits  he  had  gathered 
from  Harmony  on  the  staircase,  added  to  them 
Peter's  despondent  attitude,  his  strained  face, 
the  abstraction  which  required  a  touch  on  the 
arm  from  his  companion  when  they  reached 
their  destination,  recalled  Peter  outside  the  door 
of  Harmony's  room  in  the  Pension  Schwarz  — 
and  built  him  a  little  story  that  was  not  far 
from  the  truth. 

Peter  left  the  car  without  seeing  him.  It  was 
the  hour  of  the  promenade,  when  the  Ring  and 
the  larger  business  streets  were  full  of  people, 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

when  Demel's  was  thronged  with  pretty  women 
eating  American  ices,  with  military  men  drink- 
ing tea  and  nibbling  Austrian  pastry,  the  hour 
when  the  flower  women  along  the  Stephansplatz 
did  a  rousing  business  in  roses,  when  sterile 
women  burned  candles  before  the  Madonna  in 
the  Cathedral,  when  the  lottery  did  the  record 
business  of  the  day. 

It  was  Peter's  forlorn  hope  that  somewhere 
among  the  crowd  he  might  happen  on  Har- 
mony. For  some  reason  he  thought  of  her  al- 
ways as  in  a  crowd,  with  people  close,  touching 
her,  men  staring  at  her,  following  her.  He  had 
spent  a  frightful  night  in  the  Opera,  scanning 
seat  after  seat,  not  so  much  because  he  hoped 
to  find  her  as  because  inaction  was  intolerable. 

And  so,  on  that  afternoon,  he  made  his  slow 
progress  along  the  Karntnerstrasse,  halting 
now  and  then  to  scrutinize  the  crowd.  He  even 
peered  through  the  doors  of  shops  here  and 
there,  hoping  while  he  feared  that  the'  girl 
might  be  seeking  employment  within,  as  she 
had  before  in  the  early  days  of  the  winter. 

Because  of  his  stature  and  powerful  physique, 
and  perhaps,  too,  because  of  the  wretchedness 
in  his  eyes,  people  noticed  him.  There  was  one 
place  where  Peter  lingered,  where  a  new  build- 
ing was  being  erected,  and  where  because  of  the 
narrowness  of  the  passage  the  dense  crowd  was 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

thinned  as  it  passed.  He  stood  by  choice  out- 
side a  hairdresser's  window,  where  a  brilliant 
light  shone  on  each  face  that  passed. 

Inside  the  clerks  had  noticed  him.  Two  of 
them  standing  together  by  the  desk  spoke  of 
him:  "He  is  there  again,  the  gray  man!" 

"Ah,  so!  But,  yes,  there  is  his  back!" 

"Poor  one,  it  is  the  Fraulein  Engel  he  waits 
to  see,  perhaps." 

"More  likely  Le  Grande,  the  American.  He 
is  American." 

"He  is  Russian.   Look  at  his  size." 

"But  his  shoes!"  triumphantly.  "They  are 
American,  little  one." 

The  third  girl  had  not  spoken;  she  was  wrap- 
ping in  tissue  a  great  golden  rose  made  for  the 
hair.  She  placed  it  in  a  box  carefully. 

"I  think  he  is  of  the  police,"  she  said,  "or  a 
spy.  There  is  much  talk  of  war." 

"Foolishness!  Does  a  police  officer  sigh  al- 
ways? Or  a  spy  have  such  sadness  in  his  face? 
And  he  grows  thin  and  white." 

"The  rose,  Fraulein." 

The  clerk  who  had  wrapped  up  the  flower 
held  it  out  to  the  customer.  The  customer, 
however,  was  not  looking.  She  was  gazing  with 
strange  intentness  at  the  back  of  a  worn  gray 
overcoat.  Then  with  a  curious  clutch  at  her 
heart  she  went  white.  Harmony,  of  course, 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony  come  to  fetch  the  golden  rose  that  was 
to  complete  Le  Grande's  costume. 

She  recovered  almost  at  once  and  made  an 
excuse  to  leave  by  another  exit. 

She  took  a  final  look  at  the  gray  sleeve  that 
was  all  she  could  see  of  Peter,  who  had  shifted 
a  bit,  and  stumbled  out  into  the  crowd, 
walking  along  with  her  lip  trembling  under  her 
veil,  and  with  the  slow  and  steady  ache  at  her 
heart  that  she  had  thought  she  had  stilled  for 
good. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  Harmony  that 
Peter  loved  her.  He  had  proposed  to  her  twice, 
but  that  had  been  in  each  case  to  solve  a  diffi- 
culty for  her.  And  once  he  had  taken  her  in 
his  arms,  but  that  was  different.  Even  then  he 
had  not  said  he  loved  her  —  had  not  even  known 
it,  to  be  exact.  Nor  had  Harmony  realized 
what  Peter  meant  to  her  until  she  had  put  him 
out  of  her  life. 

The  sight  of  the  familiar  gray  coat,  the  scrap 
of  conversation,  so  enlightening  as  to  poor 
Peter's  quest,  that  Peter  was  growing  thin  and 
white,  made  her  almost  reel.  She  had  been  too 
occupied  with  her  own  position  to  realize 
Peter's.  With  the  glimpse  of  him  came  a  great 
longing  for  the  house  on  the  Siebensternstrasse, 
for  Jimmy's  arms  about  her  neck,  for  the  salon 
with  the  lamp  lighted  and  the  sleet  beating 

305 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

harmlessly  against  the  casement  windows,  for 
the  little  kitchen  with  the  brick  stove,  for  - 
Peter. 

Doubts  of  the  wisdom  of  her  course  assailed 
her.  But  to  go  back  meant,  at  the  best,  adding 
to  Peter's  burden  of  Jimmy  and  Marie,  meant 
the  old  situation  again,  too,  for  Marie  most 
certainly  did  not  add  to  the  respectability  of 
the  establishment.  And  other  doubts  assailed 
her.  What  if  Jimmy  were  not  so  well,  should 
die,  as  was  possible,  and  she  had  not  let  his 
mother  see  him! 

Monia  Reiff  was  very  busy  that  day. 
Harmony  did  not  leave  the  workroom  until 
eight  o'clock.  During  all  that  time,  while  her 
slim  fingers  worked  over  fragile  laces  and  soft 
chiffons,  she  was  seeing  Jimmy  as  she  had  seen 
him  last,  with  the  flower  fairies  on  his  pillow, 
and  Peter,  keeping  watch  over  the  crowd  in 
the  Karntnerstrasse,  looking  with  his  steady 
eyes  for  her. 

No  part  of  the  city  was  safe  for  a  young  girl 
after  night,  she  knew;  the  sixteenth  district 
was  no  better  than  the  rest,  rather  worse  in 
places.  But  the  longing  to  see  the  house  on  the 
Siebensternstrasse  grew  on  her,  became  from 
an  ache  a  sharp  and  insistent  pain.  She  must 
go,  must  see  once  again  the  comfortable  glow 

306 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

of  Peter's  lamp,  the  flicker  that  was  the 
fire. 

She  ate  no  supper.  She  was  too  tired  to  eat, 
and  there  was  the  pain.  She  put  on  her  wraps 
and  crept  down  the  whitewashed  staircase. 
The  paved  courtyard  below  was  to  be  crossed 
and  it  was  poorly  lighted.  She  achieved  the 
street,  however,  without  molestation.  To  the 
street-car  was  only  a  block,  but  during  that 
block  she  was  accosted  twice.  She  was  white 
and  frightened  when  she  reached  the  car. 

The  Siebensternstrasse  at  last.  The  street 
was  always  dark;  the  delicatessen  shop  was 
closed,  but  in  the  wild-game  store  next  a  light 
was  burning  low,  and  a  flame  flickered  before 
the  little  shrine  over  the  money  drawer.  The 
gameseller  was  a  religious  man. 

The  old  stucco  house  dominated  the  neigh- 
borhood. From  the  time  she  left  the  car  Harmony 
saw  it,  its  long  flat  roof  black  against  the  dark 
sky,  its  rows  of  unlighted  windows,  its  long  wall 
broken  in  the  center  by  the  gate.  Now  from 
across  the  street  its  whole  facade  lay  before  her. 
Peter's  lamp  was  not  lighted,  but  there  was  a 
glow  of  soft  firelight  from  the  salon  windows. 
The  light  was  not  regular  —  it  disappeared  at 
regular  intervals,  was  blotted  out.  Harmony 
knew  what  that  meant.  Some  one  beyond  range 
of  where  she  stood  was  pacing  the  floor,  back 

307 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  forward,  back  and  forward.  When  he  was 
worried  or  anxious  Peter  always  paced  the  floor. 

She  did  not  know  how  long  she  stood  there. 
One  of  the  soft  rains  was  falling,  or  more  accu- 
rately, condensing.  The  saturated  air  was  hardly 
cold.  She  stood  on  the  pavement  unmolested, 
while  the  glow  died  lower  and  lower,  until  at 
Jast  it  was  impossible  to  trace  the  pacing  figure. 
No  one  came  'to  any  of  the  windows.  The  little 
lamp  before  the  shrine  in  the  wild-game  shop 
burned  itself  out;  the  Portier  across  the  way 
came  to  the  door,  glanced  up  at  the  sky  and 
went  in.  Harmony  heard  the  rattle  of  the  chain 
as  it  was  stretched  across  the  door  inside. 

Not  all  the  windows  of  the  suite  opened  on 
the  street.  Jimmy's  windows  —  and  Peter's  — 
opened  toward  the  back  of  the  house,  where  in  a 
brick-paved  courtyard  the  wife  of  the  Portier 
hung  her  washing,  and  where  the  Portier  him- 
self kept  a  hutch  of  rabbits.  A  wild  and  reckless 
desire  to  see  at  least  the  light  from  the  child's 
room  possessed  Harmony.  Even  the  light  would 
be  something;  to  go  like  this,  to  carry  with  hei 
only  the  memory  of  a  dark  looming  house 
without  cheer  was  unthinkable.  The  gate  was 
never  locked.  If  she  but  went  into  the  garden 
and  round  by  the  spruce  tree  to  the  back  of 
the  house,  it  would  be  something. 

She  knew  the  garden  quite  well.  Even  the 
308 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

darkness  had  no  horror  for  her.  Little  Scatchy 
had  had  a  habit  of  leaving  various  articles  on 
her  window-sill  and  of  instigating  searches  for 
them  at  untimely  hours  of  night.  Once  they 
had  found  her  hairbrush  in  the  rabbit  hutch! 
So  Harmony,  ashamed  but  unalarmed,  made 
her  way  by  the  big  spruce  to  the  corner  of  the 
old  lodge  and  thus  to  the  courtyard. 

Ah,  this  was  better!  Lights  all  along  the 
apartment  floor  and  moving  shadows;  on  Jim- 
my's window-sill  a  jar  of  milk.  And  voices  — 
some  one  was  singing. 

Peter  was  singing,  droning  softly,  as  one 
who  puts  a  drowsy  child  to  sleep.  Slower  and 
slower,  softer  and  softer,  over  and  over,  the 
little  song  Harmony  had  been  wont  to  sing:  — 

"  Ah  well!   For  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes. 
And  in  the  —  hereafter  —  angels  may 
Roll  —  the  —  stone  —  from  —  its  —  grave  —  away." 

Slower  and  slower,  softer  and  softer,  until  it 
uied  away  altogether.  Peter,  in  his  old  dressing- 
gown,  came  to  the  window  and  turned  down 
the  gaslight  beside  it  to  a  blue  point.  Harmony 
did  not  breathe.  For  a  minute,  two  minutes, 
he  stood  there  looking  out.  Far  off  the  twin 
clocks  of  the  Votivkirche  struck  the  hour.  All 
about  lay  the  lights  of  the  old  city,  so  very  old, 
so  wise,  so  cunning,  so  cold. 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Peter  stood  looking  out,  as  he  had  each  night 
since  Harmony  went  away.  Each  night  he 
sang  the  boy  to  sleep,  turned  down  the  light 
and  stood  by  the  window.  And  each  night  he 
whispered  to  the  city  that  sheltered  Harmony 
somewhere,  what  he  had  whispered  to  the  little 
sweater  coat  the  night  before  he  went  away :  — 

"Good-night,  dear.   Good-night,  Harmony." 

The  rabbits  stirred  uneasily  in  the  hutch; 
a  passing  gust  shook  the  great  tree  overhead 
and  sent  down  a  sharp  shower  on  to  the  bricks 
below.  Peter  struck  a  match  and  lit  his  pipe; 
the  flickering  light  illuminated  his  face,  his 
rough  hair,  his  steady  eyes. 

"Good-night,  Peter,"  whispered  Harmony. 
"  Good-night,  dear." 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

WALTER  STEWART  had  made  an  un- 
complicated recovery,  helped  along  by 
relief  at  the  turn  events  had  taken.  In  a  few 
days  he  was  going  about  again,  weak  naturally, 
rather  handsomer  than  before  because  a  little 
less  florid.  But  the  week's  confinement  had 
given  him  an  opportunity  to  think  over  many 
things.  Peter  had  set  him  thinking,  on  the  day 
when  he  had  packed  up  the  last  of  Marie's 
small  belongings  and  sent  them  down  to  Vienna. 

Stewart,  lying  in  bed,  had  watched  him. 
"Just  how  much  talk  do  you  suppose  this  has 
made,  Byrne?"  he  asked. 

"Haven't  an  idea.  Some  probably.  The 
people  in  the  Russian  villa  saw  it,  you  know." 

Stewart's  brows  contracted. 

"Damnation!  Then  the  hotel  has  it,  of 
course!" 

"Probably." 

Stewart  groaned.  Peter  closed  Marie's  Ameri- 
can trunk  of  which  she  had  been  so  proud,  and 
coming  over  looked  down  at  the  injured  man. 

"Don't  you  think  you  'd  better  tell  the  girl 
all  about  it?" 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"No,"  doggedly. 

"I  know,  of  course,  it  would  n't  be  easy,  but 
—  you  can't  get  away  with  it,  Stewart.  That 's 
one  way  of  looking  at  it.  There 's  another." 

"What's  that?" 

"Starting  with  a  clean  slate.  If  she 's  the  sort 
you  want  to  marry,  and  not  a  prude,  she'll 
understand,  not  at  first,  but  after  she  gets  used 
to  it." 

"She  wouldn't  understand  in  a  thousand 
years." 

"Then  you  'd  better  not  marry  her.  You 
know,  Stewart,  I  have  an  idea  that  women 
imagine  a  good  many  pretty  rotten  things 
about  us,  anyhow.  A  sensible  girl  would  rather 
know  the  truth  and  be  done  with  it.  What  a 
man  has  done  with  his  life  before  a  girl  —  the 
right  girl  —  comes  into  it  is  n't  a  personal 
injury  to  her,  since  she  was  n't  a  part  of  his 
life  then.  You  know  what  I  mean.  But  she 
has  a  right  to  know  it  before  she  chooses." 

"How  many  would  choose  under  those  cir- 
cumstances?" he  jibed. 

Peter  smiled.  "Quite  a  few,"  he  said  cheer- 
fully. "It's  a  wrong  system,  of  course;  but  we 
can  get  a  little  truth  out  of  it." 

'You  can't  get  away  with  it"  stuck  in  Stew- 
art's mind  for  several  days.  It  was  the  one  thing 
Peter  said  that  did  stick.  And  before  Stewart 

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The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

had  recovered  enough  to  be  up  and  about  he 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  tell  Anita.  In  his 
mind  he  made  quite  a  case  for  himself;  he  argued 
the  affair  against  his  conscience  and  came  out 
victorious. 

Anita's  party  had  broken  up.  The  winter 
sports  did  not  compare,  they  complained,  with 
St.  Moritz.  They  disliked  German  cooking. 
Into  the  bargain  the  weather  was  not  good; 
the  night's  snows  turned  soft  by  midday;  and 
the  crowds  that  began  to  throng  the  hotels  v/ere 
solid  citizens,  not  the  fashionables  of  the  Riviera. 
Anita's  arm  forbade  her  traveling.  In  the  reas- 
sembling of  the  party  she  went  to  the  Kurhaus 
in  the  valley  below  the  pension  with  one  of 
the  women  who  wished  to  take  the  baths. 

It  was  to  the  Kurhaus,  then,  that  Stewart 
made  his  first  excursion  after  the  accident.  He 
went  to  dinner.  Part  of  the  chaperon's  treat- 
ment called  for  an  early  retiring  hour,  which 
was  highly  as  he  had  wished  it  and  rather  un- 
nerving after  all.  A  man  may  decide  that  a  dose 
of  poison  is  the  remedy  for  all  his  troubles,  but 
he  does  not  approach  his  hour  with  any  hilarity. 
Stewart  was  a  stupid  dinner  guest,  ate  very 
little,  and  looked  haggard  beyond  belief  when 
the  hour  came  for  the  older  woman  to  leave. 

He  did  not  lack  courage  however.  It  was  his 
great  asset,  physical  and  mental  rather  than 

313 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

moral,  but  courage  nevertheless.  The  evening 
was  quiet,  and  they  elected  to  sit  on  the  bal- 
cony outside  Anita's  sitting  room,  the  girl 
swathed  in  white  furs  and  leaning  back  in  her 
steamer  chair. 

Below  lay  the  terrace  of  the  Kurhaus,  edged 
with  evergreen  trees.  Beyond  and  far  below 
that  was  the  mountain  village,  a  few  scattered 
houses  along  a  frozen  stream.  The  townspeople 
retired  early;  light  after  light  was  extinguished., 
until  only  one  in  the  priest's  house  remained . 
A  train  crept  out  of  one  tunnel  and  into  another, 
like  a  glowing  worm  crawling  from  burrow  to 
burrow. 

The  girl  felt  a  change  in  Stewart.  During 
the  weeks  he  had  known  her  there  had  been  a 
curious  restraint  in  his  manner  to  her.  There 
were  times  whan  an  avowal  seemed  to  tremble 
on  his  lips,  when  his  eyes  looked  into  hers  with 
the  look  no  , woman  ever  mistakes;  the  next 
moment  he  would  glance  away,  his  face  would 
harden.  They  were  miles  apart.  And  perhaps 
the  situation  had  piqued  the  girl.  Certainly  it 
had  lost  nothing  for  her  by  its  unusualness. 

To-night  there  was  a  difference  in  the  man. 
His  eyes  met  hers  squarely,  without  evasion, 
but  with  a  new  quality,  a  searching,  perhaps, 
for  something  in  her  to  give  him  courage. 
The  girl  had  character,  more  than  ordinary 

314 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

decision.  It  was  what  Stewart  admired  in  her 
most,  and  the  thing,  of  course,  that  the  little 
Marie  had  lacked.  Moreover,  Anita,  barely 
twenty,  was  a  woman,  not  a  young  girl.  Her 
knowledge  of  the  world,  not  so  deep  as  Marie's, 
was  more  comprehensive.  Where  Marie  would 
have  been  merciful,  Anita  would  be  just,  unless 
she  cared  for  him.  In  that  case  she  might  be 
less  than  just,  or  more. 

Anita  in  daylight  was  a  pretty  young  woman, 
rather  incisive  of  speech,  very  intelligent, 
having  a  wit  without  malice,  charming  to  look 
at,  keenly  alive.  Anita  in  the  dusk  of  the  bal- 
cony, waiting  to  hear  she  knew  not  what,  was  a 
judicial  white  goddess,  formidably  still,  fright- 
fully potential.  Stewart,  who  had  embraced 
many  women,  did  not  dare  a  finger  on  her  arm. 

He  had  decided  on  a  way  to  tell  the  girl  the 
story  —  a  preamble  about  his  upbringing,  which 
had  been  indifferent,  his  struggle  to  get  to  Vienna, 
his  loneliness  there,  all  leading  with  inevitable 
steps  to  Marie.  From  that,  if  she  did  not  utterly 
shrink  from  him,  to  his  love  for  her. 

It  was  his  big  hour,  that  hour  on  the  balcony. 
He  was  reaching,  through  love,  heights  of  hon^ 
esty  he  had  never  scaled  before.  But  as  a  matter 
of  fact  he  reversed  utterly  his  order  of  procedure. 
The  situation  got  him,  this  first  evening  ab- 
solutely alone  with  her.  That  and  her  nearness, 

315 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  the  pathos  of  her  bandaged,  useless  arm. 
Still  he  had  not  touched  her. 

The  thing  he  was  trying  to  do  was  more 
difficult  for  that.  General  credulity  to  the  con- 
trary, men  do  not  often  make  spoken  love  first. 
How  many  men  propose  marriage  to  their  women 
across  the  drawing-room  or  from  chair  to  chair? 
Absurd!  The  eyes  speak  first,  then  the  arms, 
the  lips  last.  The  woman  is  in  his  arms  before 
he  tells  his  love.  It  is  by  her  response  that  he 
gauges  his  chances  and  speaks  of  marriage. 
Actually  the  thing  is  already  settled;  tardy 
speech  only  follows  on  swift  instinct.  Stewart, 
wooing  as  men  woo,  would  have  taken  the  girl's 
hand,  gained  an  encouragement  from  it,  ven- 
tured to  kiss  it,  perhaps,  and  finding  no  rebuff 
would  then  and  there  have  crushed  her  to  him. 
What  need  of  words?  They  would  follow  in  due 
time,  not  to  make  a  situation  but  to  clarify  it. 

But  he  could  not  woo  as  men  woo.  The  bar- 
rier of  his  own  weakness  stood  between  them 
and  must  be  painfully  taken  down. 

"I'm  afraid  this  is  stupid  for  you,"  said 
Anita  out  of  the  silence.  "Would  you  like  to 
go  to  the  music-room?" 

"God  forbid.    I  was  thinking." 

"Of  what?"    Encouragement  this,  surely. 

"  I  was  thinking  how  you  had  come  into  my 
life,  and  stirred  it  up." 

316 


"Really?   I?" 

"You  know  that." 

"How  did  I  stir  it  up?" 

"That's  hardly  the  way  I  meant  to  put  it, 
You  Ve  changed  everything  for  me.  I  care  for 
you  —  a  very  great  deal." 

He  was  still  carefully  in  hand,  his  voice  steady. 
And  still  he  did  not  touch  her.  Other  men  had 
made  love  to  her,  but  never  in  this  fashion,  or 
was  he  making  love? 

"I  'm  very  glad  you  like  me.'* 

"Like  you!"  Almost  out  of  hand  that  time. 
The  thrill  in  his  voice  was  unmistakable.  "It 's 
much  more  than  that,  Anita,  so  much  more 
that  I  'm  going  to  try  to  do  a  hideously  hard 
thing.  Will  you  help  a  little?" 

:'Yes?  if  I  can."  She  was  stirred,  too,  and 
rather  frightened. 

Stewart  drew  his  chair  nearer  to  her  and  sat 
forward,  his  face  set  and  dogged. 

"Have  you  any  idea  how  you  were  hurt?1 
Or  why?" 

"  No.  There 's  a  certain  proportion  of  accidents 
that  occur  at  all  these  places,  is  n't  there?" 

"This  was  not  an  accident." 

"No?" 

"The  branch  of  a  tree  was  thrown  out  in 
front  of  the  sled  to  send  us  over  the  bank. 
It  was  murder,  if  intention  is  crime." 

317 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

After  a  brief  silence  — 

"Somebody  who  wished  to  kill  you,  or 
me?" 

"Both  of  us,  I  believe.  It  was  done  by  a 
woman  —  a  girl,  Anita.  A  girl  I  had  been  living 
with." 

A  brutal  way  to  tell  her,  no  doubt,  but  ad- 
mirably courageous.  For  he  was  quivering  with 
dread  when  he  said  it  —  the  courage  of  the 
man  who  faces  a  cannon.  And  here,  where  a 
less-poised  woman  would  have  broken  into 
speech,  Anita  took  the  refuge  of  her  kind  and 
was  silent.  Stewart  watched  her  as  best  he 
could  in  the  darkness,  trying  to  gather  further 
courage  to  go  on.  He  could  not  see  her  face, 
but  her  fingers,  touching  the  edge  of  the  chair, 
quivered. 

"May  I  tell  you  the  rest?" 

"I  don't  think  I  want  to  hear  it." 

"Are  you  going  to  condemr  me  unheard?" 

"There  is  n't  anything  you  can  say  against 
the  fact?" 

But  there  was  much  to  say,  and  sitting  there 
in  the  darkness  he  made  his  plea.  He  made  no 
attempt  to  put  his  case.  He  told  what  had 
happened  simply;  he  told  of  his  loneliness  and 
discomfort.  And  he  emphasized  the  lack  or 
sentiment  that  prompted  the  arrangement. 

Anita  spoke  then  for  the  first  time:  "And 
318 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

when  you  tried  to  terminate  it  she  attempted 
to  kill  you!" 

"I  was  acting  the  beast.  I  brought  her  up 
here,  and  then  neglected  her  for  you." 

'Then  it  was  hardly  only  a  business  arrange- 
ment for  her." 

"It  was  at  first.  I  never  dreamed  of  any- 
thing else.  I  swear  that,  Anita.  But  lately, 
in  the  last  month  or  two,  she  —  I  suppose  I 
should  have  seen  that  she  - 

'That  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  you.  How 
old  is  she?" 

"Nineteen." 

A  sudden  memory  came  to  Anita,  of  a  slim 
young  girl,  who  had  watched  her  with  wide, 
almost  childish  eyes. 

"Then  it  was  she  who  was  in  the  compartment 
with  you  on  the  train  coming  up?" 

"Yes." 

"Where  is  she  now?" 

"In  Vienna.  I  have  not  heard  from  her. 
Byrne,  the  chap  who  came  up  to  see  me  after 
the  —  after  the  accident,  sent  her  away.  I 
think  he  's  looking  after  her.  I  have  n't  heard 
from  him." 

"Why  did  you  tell  me  all  this?" 

"Because  I  love  you,  Anita.  I  want  you  to 
marry  me." 

"What!  After  that?" 
319 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"That,  or  something  similar,  is  in  many  men's 
lives.  They  don't  tell  it,  that 's  the  difference. 
I  'm  not  taking  any  credit  for  telling  you  this. 
I  'm  ashamed  to  the  bottom  of  my  soul,  and  when 
I  look  at  your  bandaged  arm  I  'm  suicidal. 
Peter  Byrne  urged  me  to  tell  you.  He  said  I 
could  n't  get  away  with  it;  some  time  or  other 
it  would  come  out.  Then  he  said  something 
else.  He  said  you'd  probably  understand,  and 
that  if  you  married  me  it  was  better  to  start 
with  a  clean  slate." 

No  love,  no  passion  in  the  interview  now. 
A  clear  statement  of  fact,  an  offer  —  his  past 
against  hers,  his  future  with  hers.  Her  hand 
was  steady  now.  The  light  in  the  priest's 
house  had  been  extinguished.  The  chill  of  the 
mountain  night  penetrated  Anita's  white  furs, 
and  set  her  —  or  was  it  the  chill?  —  to  shivering. 

"If  I  had  not  told  you,  would  you  have 
married  me?" 

"I  think  so.   I  '11  be  honest,  too.   Yes." 

"I  am  the  same  man  you  would  have  married. 
Only  —  more  honest." 

"I  cannot  argue  about  it.  I  am  tired  and 
cold." 

Stewart  glanced  across  the  valley  to  where 
the  cluster  of  villas  hugged  the  mountain-side. 
There  was  a  light  in  his  room;  outside  was  the 
little  balcony  where  Marie  had  leaned  against 

320 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

the  railing  and  looked  down,  down.  Some  of 
the  arrogance  of  his  new  virtue  left  the  man. 
He  was  suddenly  humbled.  For  the  first  time 
he  realized  a  part  of  what  Marie  had  endured 
in  that  small  room  where  the  light  burned. 

"Poor  little  Marie!"  he  said  softly. 

The  involuntary  exclamation  did  more  for 
him  than  any  plea  he  could  have  made.  Anita 
rose  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Go  and  see  her,"  she  said  quietly.  'You 
owe  her  that.  We  '11  be  leaving  here  in  a  day 
or  so  and  I  '11  not  see  you  again.  But  you  Ve 
been  honest,  and  I  will  be  honest,  too.  I  — I 
cared  a  great  deal,  too." 

"And  this  has  killed  it?" 

"I  hardly  comprehend  it  yet.  I  shall  have  to 
have  time  to  think." 

"But  if  you  are  going  away  —  I  'm  afraid  to 
leave  you.  You  '11  think  this  thing  over,  alone, 
and  all  the  rules  of  life  you've  been  taught 
will  come  — " 

"Please,  I  must  think.  I  will  write  you,  I 
promise." 

He  caught  her  hand  and  crushed  it  between 
both  of  his. 

"I  suppose  you  would  rather  I  did  not  kiss 
you?"  humbly. 

"I  do  not  want  you  to  kiss  me." 

He  released  her  hand  and  stood  looking  down 
321 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

at  her  in  the  darkness.  If  he  could  only  have 
crushed  her  to  him,  made  her  feel  the  security 
of  his  love,  of  his  sheltering  arms!  But  the 
barrier  of  his  own  building  was  between  them. 
His  voice  was  husky. 

"I  want  you  to  try  to  remember,  past  what 
I  have  told  you,  to  the  thing  that  concerns  us 
both  —  I  love  you.  I  never  loved  the  other 
woman.  I  never  pretended  I  loved  her.  And 
there  will  be  nothing  more  like  that." 

"I  shall  try  to  remember." 

Anita  left  Semmering  the  next  day,  against 
the  protests  of  the  doctor  and  the  pleadings  of 
the  chaperon.  She  did  not  see  Stewart  again. 
But  before  she  left,  with  the  luggage  gone  and 
the  fiacre  at  the  door,  she  went  out  on  the 
terrace,  and  looked  across  to  the  Villa  Wald- 
heim,  rising  from  among  its  clustering  trees. 
Although  it  was  too  far  to  be  certain,  she  thought 
she  saw  the  figure  of  a  man  on  the  little  balcony 
standing  with  folded  arms,  gazing  across  the 
valley  to  the  Kurhaus. 

Having  promised  to  see  Marie,  Stewart 
proceeded  to  carry  out  his  promise  in  his  direct 
fashion.  He  left  Semmering  the  evening  of  the 
following  day,  for  Vienna.  The  strain  of  the 
confession  was  over,  but  he  was  a  victim  of 
sickening  dread.  To  one  thing  only  he  dared 

322 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

to  pin  his  hopes.  Anita  had  said  she  cared, 
cared  a  great  deal.  And,  after  all,  what  else 
mattered?  The  story  had  been  a  jolt,  he  told 
himself.  Girls  were  full  of  queer  ideas  of  right 
and  wrong,  bless  them!  But  she  cared.  She 
cared ! 

He  arrived  in  Vienna  at  nine  o'clock  that 
night.  The  imminence  of  his  interview  with 
Marie  hung  over  him  like  a  cloud.  He  ate  a 
hurried  supper,  and  calling  up  the  Doctors' 
Club  by  telephone  found  Peter's  address  in  the 
Siebensternstrasse.  He  had  no  idea,  of  course, 
that  Marie  was  there.  He  wanted  to  see  Peter 
to  learn  where  Marie  had  taken  refuge,  and 
incidentally  to  get  from  Peter  a  fresh  supply  of 
moral  courage  for  the  interview.  For  he  needed 
courage.  In  vain  on  the  journey  down  had  he 
clothed  himself  in  armor  of  wrath  against  the 
girl;  the  very  compartment  in  the  train  pro- 
voked softened  memories  of  her.  Here  they  had 
bought  a  luncheon,  there  Marie  had  first  seen 
the  Rax.  Again  at  this  station  she  had  curled 
up  and  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder  for  a  nap. 
Ah,  but  again,  at  this  part  of  the  journey  he 
had  first  seen  Anita! 

He  took  a  car  to  the  Siebensternstrasse.  His 
idea  of  Peter's  manner  of  living  those  days  was 
exceedingly  vague.  He  had  respected  Peter's 
reticence,  after  the  manner  of  men  with  each 

323 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

other.  Peter  had  once  mentioned  a  boy  he 
was  looking  after,  in  excuse  for  leaving  so  soon 
after  the  accident.  That  was  all. 

The  house  on  the  Siebensternstrasse  loomed 
large  and  unlighted.  The  street  was  dark,  and 
it  was  only  after  a  search  that  Stewart  found  the 
gate.  Even  then  he  lost  the  path,  and  found 
himself  among  a  group  of  trees,  to  touch  the 
lowest  branches  of  any  of  which  resulted  in  a 
shower  of  raindrops.  To  add  to  his  discomfort 
some  one  was  walking  in  the  garden,  coming 
toward  him  with  light,  almost  stealthy  steps. 

Stewart  by  his  tree  stood  still,  waiting.  The 
steps  approached,  were  very  close,  were  beside 
him.  So  intense  was  the  darkness  that  even 
then  all  he  saw  was  a  blacker  shadow,  and  that 
was  visible  only  because  it  moved.  Then  a 
hand  touched  his  arm,  stopped  as  if  paralyzed, 
drew  back  slowly,  fearfully. 

"Good  Heavens!"  said  poor  Harmony  faintly. 

"Please  don't  be  alarmed.  I  have  lost  the 
path."  Stewart's  voice  was  almost  equally 
nervous.  "Is  it  to  the  right  or  the  left?" 

It  was  a  moment  before  Harmony  had  breath 
to  speak.  Then :  - 

"To  the  right  a  dozen  paces  or  so." 

"Thank  you.  Perhaps  I  can  help  you  to  find 
it." 

"I  know  it  quite  well.  Please  don't  bother." 
324 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  whole  situation  was  so  unexpected  that 
only  then  did  it  dawn  on  Stewart  that  this 
blacker  shadow  was  a  countrywoman  speaking 
God's  own  language.  Together,  Harmony  a 
foot  or  so  in  advance,  they  made  the  path. 

'The  house  is  there.    Ring  hard,  the  bell  is 
out  of  order." 

"Are  you  not  coming  in?" 

"No.    I  —  I  do  not  live  here." 

She  must  have  gone  just  after  that.  Stewart, 
glancing  at  the  dark  facade  of  the  house, 
turned  round  to  find  her  gone,  and  a  moment 
later  heard  the  closing  of  the  gate.  He  was 
bewildered.  What  sort  of  curious  place  was  this, 
a  great  looming  house  that  concealed  in  its 
garden  a  fugitive  American  girl  who  came  and 
went  like  a  shadow,  leaving  only  the  memory 
of  a  sweet  voice  strained  with  fright? 

Stewart  was  full  of  his  encounter  as  he  took 
the  candle  the  Portier  gave  him  and  fol- 
lowed the  gentleman's  gruff  directions  up  the 
staircase.  Peter  admitted  him,  looking  a  trifle 
uneasy,  as  well  he  might  with  Marie  in  the 
salon. 

Stewart  was  too  preoccupied  to  notice  Peter's 
expression.  He  shook  the  rain  off  his  hat, 
smiling. 

"  How  are  you?"  asked  Peter  dutifully. 

"Pretty  good,  except  for  a  headache  when 
325 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

I  'm  tired.  What  sort  of  a  place  have  you  got 
here  anyhow,  Byrne?" 

"Old  hunting-lodge  of  Maria  Theresa,"  re- 
plied Peter,  still  preoccupied  with  Marie  and 
what  was  coming.  "Rather  interesting  old 
place." 

"Rather,"  commented  Stewart,  "with  god- 
desses in  the  garden  and  all  the  usual  stunts." 

"Goddesses?" 

"Ran  into  one  just  now  among  the  trees. 
*A  woman  I  forswore,  but  thou  being  a  goddess 
I  forswore  not  thee.'  English-speaking  goddess,, 
by  George!" 

Peter  was  staring  at  him  incredulously;  now 
he  bent  forward  and  grasped  his  arm  in  fingers 
of  steel. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Stewart,  tell  me  what 
you  mean!  Who  was  in  the  garden?" 

Stewart  was  amused  and  interested.  It  was 
not  for  him  to  belittle  a  situation  of  his  own 
making,  an  incident  of  his  own  telling. 

"I  lost  my  way  in  your  garden,  wandered 
among  the  trees,  broke  through  a  hedgerow  or 
two,  struck  a  match  and  consulted  the  com- 
pass - 

Peter's  fingers  closed. 

"Quick,"  he  said. 

Stewart's  manner  lost  its  jauntiness. 

"There  was  a  girl  there,"  he  said  shortly. 
326 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Couldn't  see  her.  She  spoke  English.  Said 
she  did  n't  live  here,  and  broke  for  the  gate  the 
minute  I  got  to  the  path." 

"You  didn't  see  her?" 

"No.   Nice  voice,  though.   Young." 

The  next  moment  he  was  alone.  Peter  in 
his  dressing-gown  was  running  down  the  stair- 
case to  the  lower  floor,  was  shouting  to  the 
Portier  to  unlock  the  door,  was  a  madman  in 
everything  but  purpose.  The  Portier  let  him 
out  and  returned  to  the  bedroom. 

"The  boy  above  is  worse,"  he  said  briefly. 
"A  strange  doctor  has  just  come,  and  but  now 
the  Herr  Doktor  Byrne  runs  to  the  drug  store." 

The  Portier's  wife  shrugged  her  shoulders 
even  while  tears  filled  her  eyes. 

"What  can  one  expect?"  she  demanded. 
"The  good  Herr  Gott  has  forbidden  theft  and 
Rosa  says  the  boy  was  stolen.  Also  the  druggist 
has  gone  to  visit  his  wife's  mother." 

"Perhaps  I  may  be  of  service;  I  shall  go  up." 

"And  see  for  a  moment  that  hussy  of  the 
streets!  Remain  here.  I  shall  go." 

Slowly  and  ponderously  she  climbed  the  stairs. 

Stewart,  left  alone,  wandered  along  the  dim 
corridor.  He  found  Peter's  excitement  rather 
amusing.  So  this  was  where  Peter  lived,  an 
old  house,  isolated  in  a  garden  where  rambled 

327 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

young  women  with  soft  voices.  Hello,  a  young- 
ster asleep!  The  boy,  no  doubt. 

He  wandered  on  toward  the  lighted  door  of 
the  salon  and  Marie.  The  place  was  warm  and 
comfortable,  but  over  it  all  hung  the  inde- 
scribable odor  of  drugs  that  meant  illness.  He 
remembered  that  the  boy  was  frail. 

Marie  turned  as  he  stopped  in  the  salon  door- 
way, and  then  rose,  white-faced.  Across  the 
wide  spaces  of  the  room  they  eyed  each  other. 
Marie's  crisis  had  come.  Like  all  crises  it  was 
bigger  than  speech.  It  was  after  a  distinct 
pause  that  she  spoke. 

"Hast  thou  brought  the  police?" 

Curiously  human,  curiously  masculine  at 
least  was  Stewart's  mental  condition  at  that 
moment.  He  had  never  loved  the  girl;  it  was 
with  tremendous  relief  he  had  put  her  out  of 
his  life.  And  yet  — 

"So  it's  old  Peter  now,  is  it?" 

"No,  no,  not  that,  Walter.  He  has  given  me 
shelter,  that  is  all.  I  swear  it.  I  look  after  the 
boy." 

"Who  else  is  here?" 

"No  one  else;   but — " 

"Tell  that  rot  to  some  one  who  does  not  know 
you." 

"It  is  true.  He  never  even  looks  at  me. 
I  am  wicked,  but  I  do  not  lie."  There  was  a 

328 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

catch  of  hope  in  her  voice.  Marie  knew  men 
somewhat,  but  she  still  cherished  the  feminine 
belief  that  jealousy  is  love,  whereas  it  is  only 
injured  pride.  She  took  a  step  toward  him. 
" Walter,  I  am  sorry.  Do  you  hate  me?"  She 
had  dropped  the  familiar  "thou." 

Stewart  crossed  the  room  until  only  Peter's 
table  and  lamp  stood  between  them. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  brutal,"  he  said, 
rather  largely,  entirely  conscious  of  his  own 
magnanimity.  "It  was  pretty  bad  up  there 
and  I  know  it.  I  don't  hate  you,  of  course. 
That 's  hardly  possible  after  —  everything." 

'  You  —  would  take  me  back?" 

"No.  It's  over,  Marie.  I  wanted  to  know 
where  you  were,  that 's  all ;  to  see  that  you  were 
comfortable  and  not  frightened.  You're  a  silly 
child  to  think  of  the  police." 

Marie  put  a  hand  to  her  throat. 

"It  is  the  American,  of  course." 

"Yes." 

She  staggered  a  trifle,  recovered,  threw  up 
her  head.  "Then  I  wish  I  had  killed  her!" 

No  man  ever  violently  resents  the  passionate 
hate  of  one  woman  for  her  rival  in  his  affections. 
Stewart,  finding  the  situation  in  hand  and  Marie 
only  feebly  formidable,  was  rather  amused  and 
flattered  by  the  honest  fury  in  her  voice.  The 
mouse  was  under  his  paw;  he  would  play  a  bit. 

329 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"You'll  get  over  feeling  that  way,  kid.  You 
don't  really  love  me." 

'You  were  my  God,  that  is  all." 

"  Will  you  let  me  help  you  —  money,  I 
mean?" 

"Keep  it  for  her." 

"Peter  will  be  here  in  a  minute."  He  bent 
over  the  table  and  eyed  her  with  his  old,  half- 
bullying,  half -playful  manner.  "Come  round 
here  and  kiss  me  for  old  times." 

"No!" 

"Come." 

She  stood  stubbornly  still,  and  Stewart,  still 
smiling,  took  a  step  or  two  toward  her.  Then 
he  stopped,  ceased  smiling,  drew  himself  up. 

''You  are  quite  right  and  I'm  a  rotter." 
Marie's  English  did  not  comprehend  "rotter," 
but  she  knew  the  tone.  "Listen,  Marie,  I've 
told  the  other  girl,  and  there 's  a  chance  for  me, 
anyhow.  Some  day  she  may  marry  me.  She 
asked  me  to  see  you." 

"I  do  not  wish  her  pity." 

''You  are  wasting  your  life  here.  You  can- 
not marry,  you  say,  without  a  dot.  There  is 
a  chance  in  America  for  a  clever  girl.  You  are 
clever,  little  Marie.  The  first  money  I  can  spare 
I  '11  send  you  —  if  you  '11  take  it.  It 's  all  I  can 
do." 

This  was  a  new  Stewart,  a  man  she  had  never 
330 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

known.  Marie  recoiled  from  him,  eyed  him 
nervously,  sought  in  her  childish  mind  for  an 
explanation.  When  at  last  she  understood  that 
he  was  sincere,  she  broke  down.  Stewart,  play- 
.ng  a  new  part  and  raw  in  it,  found  the  situation 
irritating.  But  Marie's  tears  were  not  entirely 
bitter.  Back  of  them  her  busy  young  mind 
was  weaving  a  new  warp  of  life,  with  all  of 
America  for  its  loom.  Hope  that  had  died  lived 
again.  Before  her  already  lay  that  great  coun- 
try where  women  might  labor  and  live  by  the 
fruit  of  their  labor,  where  her  tawdry  past 
wrould  be  buried  in  the  center  of  distant  Europe. 
New  life  beckoned  to  the  little  Marie  that  night 
in  the  old  salon  of  Maria  Theresa,  beckoned  to 
her  as  it  called  to  Stewart,  opportunity  to  one, 
love  and  work  to  the  other.  To  America! 

"I  will  go,"  she  said  at  last  simply.  "And  I 
will  not  trouble  you  there." 

"Good!"  Stewart  held  out  his  hand  and 
Marie  took  it.  With  a  quick  gesture  she  held 
it  to  her  cheek,  dropped  it. 

Peter  came  back  half  an  hour  later,  down- 
cast but  not  hopeless.  He  had  not  found  Har- 
mony, but  life  was  not  all  gray.  She  was  well, 
still  in  Vienna,  and  —  she  had  come  back! 
She  had  cared  then  enough  to  come  back. 
To-morrow  he  would  commence  again,  would 

331 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

comb  the  city  fine,  and  when  he  had  found  her 
he  would  bring  her  back,  the  wanderer,  to  a 
marvelous  welcome. 

He  found  Stewart  gone,  and  Marie  feverishly 
overhauling  her  few  belongings  by  the  salon 
lamp.  She  turned  to  him  a  face  still  stained  with 
tears  but  radiant  with  hope. 

"Peter,"  she  said  gravely,  "I  must  prepare 
my  outfit.  I  go  to  America." 

"With  Stewart?" 

"Alone,  Peter,  to  work,  to  be  very  good,  to 
be  something.  I  am  very  happy,  although  — 
Peter,  may  I  kiss  you?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Peter,  and  took  her  caress 
gravely,  patting  her  thin  shoulder.  His  thoughts 
were  in  the  garden  with  Harmony,  who  had 
cared  enough  to  come  back. 

"Life,"  said  Peter  soberly,  "life  is  just  one 
damned  thing  after  another,  is  n't  it?" 

But  Marie  was  anxiously  examining  the  hem 
of  a  skirt. 

The  letter  from  Anita  reached  Stewart  the 
following  morning.  She  said :  — 

"I  have  been  thinking  things  over,  Walter, 
and  I  am  going  to  hurt  you  very  much  —  but 
not,  believe  me,  without  hurting  myself.  Per- 
haps my  uppermost  thought  just  now  is  that 
I  am  disappointing  you,  that  I  am  not  so  big 

332 


The  Street  ojt  Seven  Stars 

as  you  thought  I  would  be.  For  now,  in  this, 
final  letter,  I  can  tell  you  how  much  I  cared, 
Oh,  my  dear,  I  did  care! 

"But.  I  will  not  marry  you.  And  when  this 
reaches  you  I  shall  have  gone  very  quietly  out 
of  your  life.  I  find  that  such  philosophy  as  I 
have  does  not  support  me  to-night,  that  all  my 
little  rules  of  life  are  inadequate.  Individual 
liberty  was  one  —  but  there  is  no  liberty  of 
the  individual.  Life  —  other  lives  —  press  too 
closely.  You,  living  your  life  as  seemed  best 
and  easiest,  and  carrying  down  with  you  into 
shipwreck  the  little  Marie  and  —  myself ! 

"For,  face  to  face  with  the  fact,  I  cannot 
accept  it,  Walter.  It  is  not  only  a  question  of 
my  past  against  yours.  It  is  of  steady  revolt 
and  loathing  of  the  whole  thing;  not  the  flash 
of  protest  before  one  succumbs  to  the  inevitable, 
but  a  deep-seated  hatred  that  is  a  part  of  me 
and  that  would  never  forget. 

"You  say  that  you  are  the  same  man  I  would 
have  married,  only  more  honest  for  concealing 
nothing.  But  —  and  forgive  me  this,  it  insists 
on  coming  up  in  my  mind  —  were  you  honest, 
really?  You  told  me,  and  it  took  courage,  but 
was  n't  it  partly  fear?  What  motive  is  un- 
mixed? Honesty  —  and  fear,  Walter.  You 
were  preparing  against  a  contingency,  although 
you  may  not  admit  this  to  yourself. 

333 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I  am  not  passing  judgment  on  you.  God  for- 
bid that  I  should !  I  am  only  trying  to  show  you 
what  is  in  my  mind,  and  that  this  break  is 
final.  The  revolt  is  in  myself,  against  something 
sordid  and  horrible  which  I  will  not  take  into 
my  life.  And  for  that  reason  time  will  make 
no  difference. 

"I  am  not  a  child,  and  I  am  not  unreasonable. 
But  I  ask  a  great  deal  of  this  life  of  mine  that 
stretches  ahead,  Walter  —  home  and  children, 
the  love  of  a  good  man,  the  fulfillment  of  my 
ideals.  And  you  ask  me  to  start  with  a  handi- 
cap. I  cannot  do  it.  I  know  you  are  resentful., 
but  —  I  know  that  you  understand. 

"ANITA." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  little  Georgiev  was  in  trouble  those 
days.  The  Balkan  engine  was  threatening 
to  explode,  but  continued  to  gather  steam,  with 
Bulgaria  sitting  on  the  safety-valve.  Austria 
was  mobilizing  troops,  and  there  were  long 
conferences  in  the  Burg  between  the  Emperor 
and  various  bearded  gentlemen,  while  the  mil- 
itary prayed  in  the  churches  for  war. 

The  little  Georgiev  hardly  ate  or  slept. 
Much  hammering  went  on  all  day  in  the  small 
room  below  Harmony's  on  the  Wollbadgasse. 
At  night,  when  the  man  in  the  green  velours 
hat  took  a  little  sleep,  mysterious  packages 
were  carried  down  the  whitewashed  staircase 
and  loaded  into  wagons  waiting  below.  Once 
on  her  window-sill  Harmony  found  among  the 
pigeons  a  carrier  pigeon  with  a  brass  tube 
fastened  to  its  leg. 

On  the  morning  after  Harmony's  flight  from 
the  garden  in  the  Street  of  Seven  Stars,  she 
received  a  visit  from  Georgiev.  She  had  put  in 
a  sleepless  night,  full  of  heart-searching.  She 
charged  herself  with  cowardice  in  running  away 
from  Peter  and  Jimmy  when  they  needed  her, 

335 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  in  going  back  like  a  thief  the  night  before. 
The  conviction  that  the  boy  was  not  so  well 
brought  with  it  additional  introspection  —  her 
sacrifice  seemed  useless,  almost  childish.  She 
had  fled  because  two  men  thought  it  necessary, 
in  order  to  save  her  reputation,  to  marry  her; 
and  she  did  not  wish  to  marry.  Marriage  was 
fatal  to  the  career  she  had  promised  herself, 
had  been  promised.  But  this  career,  for  which 
she  had  given  up  everything  else  —  would  she 
find  it  in  the  workroom  of  a  dressmaker? 

Ah,  but  there  was  more  to  it  than  that. 
Suppose  —  how  her  cheeks  burned  when  she 
thought  of  it !  —  suppose  she  had  taken  Peter 
at  his  word  and  married  him?  What  about 
Peter's  career?  Was  there  any  way  by  which 
Peter's  poverty  for  one  would  be  comfort  for 
two?  Was  there  any  reason  why  Peter,  with 
his  splendid  ability,  should  settle  down  to  the 
hack-work  of  general  practice,  the  very  slough 
out  of  which  he  had  so  painfully  climbed? 

Either  of  two  things  —  go  back  to  Peter,  but 
not  to  marry  him,  or  stay  where  she  was.  How 
she  longed  to  go  back  only  Harmony  knew. 
There  in  the  little  room,  with  only  the  pigeons 
to  see,  she  held  out  her  arms  longingly.  "  Peter ! " 
she  said.  "Peter,  dear!" 

She  decided,  of  course,  to  stay  where  she 
was,  a  burden  to  no  one.  The  instinct  of  the 

336 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

young  girl  to  preserve  her  good  name  at  any 
cost  outweighed  the  vision  of  Peter  at  the  win- 
dow, haggard  and  tired,  looking  out.  It  was 
Harmony's  chance,  perhaps,  to  do  a  big  thing; 
to  prove  herself  bigger  than  her  fears,  stronger 
than  convention.  But  she  was  young,  bewil- 
dered, afraid.  And  there  was  this  element, 
stronger  than  any  of  the  others  —  Peter  had 
never  told  her  he  loved  her.  To  go  back,  throw- 
ing herself  again  on  his  mercy,  was  unthinkable. 
On  his  love  —  that  was  different.  But  what  ii 
he  did  not  love  her?  He  had  been  good  to  her; 
but  then  Peter  was  good  to  every  one. 

There  was  something  else.  If  the  boy  was 
worse  what  about  his  mother?  Whatever  she 
was  or  had  been,  she  was  his  mother.  Suppose 
he  were  to  die  and  his  mother  not  see  him? 
Harmony's  sense  of  fairness  rebelled.  In  the 
small  community  at  home  mother  was  sacred, 
her  claims  insistent. 

It  was  very  early,  hardly  more  than  dawn. 
The  pigeons  cooed  on  the  sill;  over  the  ridge 
of  the  church  roof,  across,  a  luminous  strip 
foretold  the  sun.  An  oxcart,  laden  with  vege- 
tables for  the  market,  lumbered  along  the 
streets.  Puzzled  and  unhappy,  Harmony  rose 
and  lighted  her  fire,  drew  on  her  slippers  and 
the  faded  silk  kimono  with  the  pink  butterflies. 

In  the  next  room  the  dressmaker  still  slept, 
337 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

dreaming  early  morning  dreams  of  lazy  appren- 
tices, overdue  bills,  complaining  customers. 

Harmony  moved  lightly  not  to  disturb  her. 
She  set  her  room  in  order,  fed  the  pigeons, —  it 
was  then  she  saw  the  carrier  with  its  message, 
-  made  her  morning  coffee  by  setting  the  tiny 
pot  inside  the  stove.  And  all  the  time,  moving 
quietly  through  her  morning  routine,  she  was 
there  in  that  upper  room  in  body  only. 

In  soul  she  was  again  in  the  courtyard  back 
of  the  old  lodge,  in  the  Street  of  Seven  Stars, 
with  the  rabbits  stirring  in  the  hutch,  and  Peter, 
with  rapt  eyes,  gazing  out  over  the  city.  Bed, 
toilet-table,  coffee-pot,  Peter;  pigeons,  rolls, 
Peter;  sunrise  over  the  church  roof,  and  Peter 
again.  Always  Peter! 

Monia  Reiff  was  stirring  in  the  next  room. 
Harmony  could  hear  her,  muttering  and  put- 
ting coal  on  the  stove  and  calling  to  the  Hun- 
garian maid  for  breakfast.  Harmony  dressed 
hastily.  It  was  one  of  her  new  duties  to  prepare 
the  workroom  for  the  day.  The  luminous  streak 
above  the  church  was  rose  now,  time  for  the 
day  to  begin. 

She  was  not  certain  at  once  that  some  one 
had  knocked  at  the  door,  so  faint  was  the  sound. 

She  hesitated,  listened.  The  knob  turned 
slightly.  Harmony,  expecting  Monia,  called 
"Come  in." 

338 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

It  was  the  little  Georgiev,  very  apologetic, 
rather  gray  of  face.  He  stood  in  the  doorway 
with  his  finger  on  his  lips,  one  ear  toward  the 
stairway.  It  was  very  silent.  Monia  was 
drinking  her  coffee  in  bed,  whither  she  had 
retired  for  warmth. 

"Pardon!"  said  the  Bulgarian  in  a  whis- 
per. :'  I  listened  until  I  heard  you  mov- 
ing about.  Ah,  Fraulein,  that  I  must  disturb 
you!" 

"Something  has  happened!"  exclaimed  Har- 
mony, thinking  of  Peter,  of  course. 

"Not  yet.  I  fear  it  is  about  to  happen. 
Fraulein,  do  me  the  honor  to  open  your  window. 
My  pigeon  comes  now  to  you  to  be  fed,  and  I 
fear  —  on  the  sill,  Fraulein." 

Harmony  opened  the  window.  The  wild 
pigeons  scattered  at  once,  but  the  carrier,  flying 
out  a  foot  or  two,  came  back  promptly  and  set 
about  its  breakfast. 

"Will  he  let  me  catch  him?" 

"Pardon,  Fraulein,   If  I  may  enter  - 

"Come  in,  of  course." 

Evidently  the  defection  of  the  carrier  had 
been  serious.  A  handful  of  grain  on  a  wrong 
window-sill,  and  kingdoms  overthrown!  Geor- 
giev caught  the  pigeon  and  drew  the  message 
from  the  tube.  Even  Harmony  grasped  the 
seriousness  of  the  situation.  The  little  Bul- 

339 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

garian's  face,  from  gray  became  livid;  tiny  beads 
of  cold  sweat  came  out  on  his  forehead. 

"What  have  I  done?"  cried  Harmony.  "Oh, 
what  have  I  done?  If  I  had  known  about  the 
pigeon  — " 

Georgiev  recovered  himself. 

"The  Fraulein  can  do  nothing  wrong,"  he 
said.  "It  is  a  matter  of  an  hour's  delay,  that 
is  all.  It  may  not  be  too  late." 

Monia  Reiff,  from  the  next  room,  called  loudly 
for  more  coffee.  The  sulky  Hungarian  brought 
it  without  a  glance  in  their  direction. 

"Too  late  for  what?" 

"Fraulein,  if  I  may  trouble  you  —  but 
glance  from  the  window  to  the  street  below. 
It  is  of  an  urgency,  or  I  —  Please,  Fraulein!" 

Harmony  glanced  down  into  the  half-light 
of  the  street.  Georgiev,  behind  her,  watched  her, 
breathless,  expectant.  Harmony  drew  in  her 
head. 

"Only  a  man  in  a  green  hat,"  she  said.  "And 
down  the  street  a  group  of  soldiers." 

"Ah!" 

The  situation  dawned  on  the  girl  then,  at 
least  partially. 

"They  are  coming  for  you?" 

"It  is  possible.  But  there  are  many  soldiers 
in  Vienna." 

"And  I  with  the  pigeon  —  Oh,  it 's  too  horri- 
340 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

ble!  Herr  Georgiev,  stay  here  in  this  room. 
Lock  the  door.  Monia  will  say  that  it  is  mine  - 

"Ah  no,  Fraulein!  It  is  quite  hopeless.  Nor 
is  it  a  matter  of  the  pigeon.  It  is  war,  Fraulein. 
Do  not  distress  yourself.  It  is  but  a  matter  of 
-  imprisonment." 

"There  must  be  something  I  can  do,"  des- 
perately. "I  hear  them  below.  Is  there  no  way 
to  the  roof,  no  escape?" 

"None,  Fraulein.  It  was  an  oversight.  War 
is  not  my  game;  I  am  a  man  of  peace.  You 
have  been  very  kind  to  me,  Fraulein.  I  thank 

you." 

;'You  are  not  going  down!" 

"Pardon,  but  it  is  better  so.  Soldiers  they 
are  of  the  provinces  mostly,  and  not  for  a  lady 
to  confront." 

"They  are  coming  up!" 

He  listened.  The  clank  of  scabbards  against 
the  stone  stairs  was  unmistakable.  The  little 
Georgiev  straightened,  threw  out  his  chest, 
turned  to  descend,  faltered,  came  back  a  step 
or  two. 

His  small  black  eyes  were  fixed  on  Harmony's 
face. 

"Fraulein,"  he  said  huskily,  "you  are  very 
lovely.  I  carry  always  in  my  heart  your  image. 
Always  so  long  as  I  live.  Adieu." 

He  drew  his  heels  together,  gave  a  stiff  little 
341 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

bow  and  was  gone  down  the  staircase.  Har- 
mony was  frightened,  stricken.  She  collapsed 
in  a  heap  on  the  floor  of  her  room,  her  fingers 
in  her  ears.  But  she  need  not  have  feared.  The 
little  Georgiev  made  no  protest,  submitted  to 
the  inevitable  like  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier, 
T\ent  out  of  her  life,  indeed,  as  unobtrusively 
as  he  had  entered  it. 

The  carrier  pigeon  preened  itself  comfort- 
ably on  the  edge  of  the  washstand.  Harmony 
ceased  her  hysterical  crying  at  last  and  pon- 
dered what  was  best  to  do.  Monia  was  still 
breakfasting  so  incredibly  brief  are  great  mo- 
ments. After  a  little  thought  Harmony  wrote 
a  tiny  message,  English,  German,  and  French, 
and  inclosed  it  in  the  brass  tube. 

"The  Herr  Georgiev  has  been  arrested," 
she  wrote.  An  hour  later  the  carrier  rose  lazily 
from  the  window-sill,  flapped  its  way  over  the 
church  roof  and  disappeared,  like  Georgiev, 
out  of  her  life.  Grim-visaged  war  had  touched 
her  and  passed  on. 

The  incident  was  not  entirely  closed,  how- 
ever. A  search  of  the  building  followed  the 
capture  of  the  little  spy.  Protesting  tenants  were 
turned  out,  beds  were  dismantled,  closets 
searched,  walls  sounded  for  hidden  hollows. 
In  one  room  on  Harmony's  floor  was  found 
stored  a  quantity  of  ammunition. 

342 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

It  was  when  the  three  men  who  had  conducted 
the  search  had  finished,  when  the  boxes  of  am- 
munition had  been  gathered  in  the  hall,  and  the 
chattering  sewing-girls  had  gone  back  to  work, 
that  Harmony,  on  her  way  to  her  dismantled 
room,  passed  through  the  upper  passage. 

She  glanced  down  the  staircase  where  little 
Georgiev  had  so  manfully  descended. 

"I  carry  always  in  my  heart  your  image. 
Always  so  long  as  I  live." 

The  clatter  of  soldiers  on  their  way  down  to 
the  street  came  to  her  ears;  the  soft  cooing  of 
the  pigeons,  the  whirr  of  sewing-machines  from 
the  workroom.  The  incident  was  closed,  except 
for  the  heap  of  ammunition  boxes  on  the  land- 
ing, guarded  by  an  impassive  soldier. 

Harmony  glanced  at  him.  He  was  eying 
her  steadily,  thumbs  in,  heels  in,  toes  out, 
chest  out.  Harmony  put  her  hand  to  her  heart. 

"You!"  she  said. 

The  conversation  of  a  sentry,  save  on  a  holi- 
day is,  "Yea,  yea,"  and  "Nay,  nay." 

"Yes,  Fraulein." 

Harmony  put  her  hands  together,  a  little 
gesture  of  appeal,  infinitely  touching. 

"You  will  not  say  that  you  have  found,  have 
seen  me?" 

"No,  Fraulein." 

It  was  in  Harmony's  mind  to  ask  all  her 
343 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

hungry  heart  craved  to  learn  —  of  Peter,  of 
Jimmy,  of  the  Portier,  of  anything  that  be- 
longed to  the  old  life  in  the  Siebensternstrasse. 
But  there  was  no  time.  The  sentry's  impassive 
face  became  rigid;  he  looked  through  her,  not 
at  her.  Harmony  turned. 

The  man  in  the  green  hat  was  coming  up  the 
staircase.  There  was  no  further  chance  to  ques- 
tion-. The  sentry  was  set  to  carrying  the  boxes 
down  the  staircase. 

Full  morning  now,  with  the  winter  sun  shin- 
ing on  the  beggars  in  the  market,  on  the  crowds 
in  the  parks,  on  the  flower  sellers  in  the  Ste- 
phansplatz;  shining  on  Harmony's  golden  head 
as  she  bent  over  a  bit  of  chiffon,  on  the  old 
milkwoman  carrying  up  the  whitewashed  stair- 
case her  heavy  cans  of  milk ;  on  the  carrier  pigeon 
winging  its  way  to  the  south;  beating  in  through 
bars  to  the  exalted  face  of  Herr  Georgiev ; 
resting  on  Peter's  drooping  shoulders,  on  the 
neglected  mice  and  the  wooden  soldier,  on  the 
closed  eyes  of  a  sick  child  —  the  worshiped 
sun,  peering  forth  —  the  golden  window  of  the 
East. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

JIMMY  was  dying.  Peter,  fighting  hard, 
was  beaten  at  last.  All  through  the  night 
he  had  felt  it;  during  the  hours  before  the 
dawn  there  had  been  times  when  the  small 
pulse  wavered,  flickered,  almost  ceased.  With 
the  daylight  there  had  been  a  trifle  of  recovery, 
enough  for  a  bit  of  hope,  enough  to  make  harder 
Peter's  acceptance  of  the  inevitable. 

The  boy  was  very  happy,  quite  content  and 
comfortable.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  he 
smiled  at  Peter,  and  Peter,  gray  of  face,  smiled 
back.  Peter  died  many  deaths  that  night. 

At  daylight  Jimmy  fell  into  a  sleep  that  was 
really  stupor.  Marie,  creeping  to  the  door  in 
the  faint  dawn,  found  the  boy  apparently 
asleep  and  Peter  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed. 
He  raised  his  head  at  her  footstep  and  the  girl 
was  startled  at  the  suffering  in  his  face.  He 
motioned  her  back. 

"But  you  must  have  a  little  sleep,  Peter." 

"No.  I'll  stay  until-  Go  back  to  bed.  It 
is  very  early." 

Peter  had  not  been  able  after  all  to  secure  the 
Nurse  Elisabet,  and  now  it  was  useless.  At 

345 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

eight  o'clock  he  let  Marie  take  his  place,  then 
he  bathed  and  dressed  and  prepared  to  face 
another  day,  perhaps  another  night.  For  the 
child's  release  came  slowly.  He  tried  to  eat 
breakfast,  but  managed  only  a  cup  of  coffee. 

Many  things  had  come  to  Peter  in  the  long 
night,  and  one  was  insistent  —  the  boy's  mother 
was  in  Vienna  and  he  was  dying  without  her. 
Peter  might  know  in  his  heart  that  he  had  done 
the  best  thing  for  the  child,  but  like  Harmony 
his  early  training  was  rising  now  to  accuse  him. 
He  had  separated  mother  and  child.  Who  was 
he  to  have  decided  the  mother's  unfit  ness,  to 
have  played  destiny?  How  lightly  he  had  taken 
the  lives  of  others  in  his  hand,  and  to  what 
end?  Harmony,  God  knows  where;  the  boy 
dying  without  his  mother.  Whatever  that 
mother  might  be,  her  place  that  day  was  with 
her  boy.  What  a  wreck  he  had  made  of  things! 
He  was  humbled  as  well  as  stricken,  poor  Peter! 

In  the  morning  he  sent  a  note  to  McLean, 
asking  him  to  try  to  trace  the  mother  and  in- 
closing the  music-hall  clipping  and  the  letter. 
The  letter,  signed  only  "Mamma,"  was  not 
helpful.  The  clipping  might  prove  valuable. 

"And  for  Heaven's  sake  be  quick,"  wrote 
Peter.  "This  is  a  matter  of  hours.  I  meant  well . 
but  I  Ve  done  a  terrible  thing.  Bring  her,  Mac, 
no  matter  what  she  is  or  where  you  find  her." 

346 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

The  Portier  carried  the  note.  When  he  came 
up  to  get  it  he  brought  in  his  pocket  a  small 
rabbit  and  a  lettuce  leaf.  Never  before  had  the 
combination  failed  to  arouse  and  amuse  the 
boy.  He  carried  the  rabbit  down  again  sorrow- 
fully. "He  saw  it  not,"  he  reported  sadly  to 
his  wife.  "  Be  off  to  the  church  while  I  deliver 
this  letter.  And  this  rabbit  we  will  not  cook, 
but  keep  in  remembrance." 

At  eleven  o'clock  Marie  called  Peter,  who  was 
asleep  on  the  horsehair  sofa. 

"He  asks  for  you." 

Peter  was  instantly  awake  and  on  his  feet. 
The  boy's  eyes  were  open  and  fixed  on  him. 

"Is  it  another  day?"  he  asked. 

:<Yes,  boy;  another  morning." 

"I  am  cold,  Peter." 

They  blanketed  him,  although  the  room  was 
warm.  From  where  he  lay  he  could  see  the 
mice.  He  watched  them  for  a  moment.  Poor 
Peter,  very  humble,  found  himself  wondering 
in  how  many  ways  he  had  been  remiss.  To  see 
this  small  soul  launched  into  eternity  without 
a  foreword,  without  a  bit  of  light  for  the  journey ! 
Peter's  religion  had  been  one  of  life  and  living, 
not  of  creed. 

Marie,  bringing  jugs  of  hot  water,  bent  over 
Peter. 

"He  knows,  poor  little  one!"  she  whispered. 
347 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

And  so,  indeed,  it  would  seem.  The  boy., 
revived  by  a  spoonful  or  two  of  broth,  asked 
to  have  the  two  tame  mice  on  the  bed.  Peter, 
opening  the  cage,  found  one  dead,  very  stiff 
and  stark.  The  catastrophe  he  kept  from  the 
boy. 

"One  is  sick,  Jimmy  boy,"  he  said,  and  placed 
the  mate,  forlorn  and  shivering,  on  the  pillow. 
After  a  minute :  — 

"If  the  sick  one  dies  will  it  go  to  heaven?" 

"Yes,  honey,  I  think  so." 

The  boy  was  silent  for  a  time.  Thinking  was 
easier  than  speech.  His  mind  too  worked  slowly. 
It  was  after  a  pause,  while  he  lay  there  with 
closed  eyes,  that  Peter  saw  two  tears  slip  from 
under  his  long  lashes.  Peter  bent  over  and  wiped 
them  away,  a  great  ache  in  his  heart. 

"What  is  it,  dear?" 

"I'm  afraid  —  it's  going  to  die!" 

"Would  that  be  so  terrible,  Jimmy  boy?" 
asked  Peter  gently.  "To  go  to  heaven,  where 
there  is  no  more  death  or  dying,  where  it  is 
always  summer  and  the  sun  always  shines?" 

No  reply  for  a  moment.  The  little  mouse  sat 
up  on  the  pillow  and  rubbed  its  nose  with  a 
pinkish  paw.  The  baby  mice  in  the  cage  nuz- 
zled their  dead  mother. 

"Is  there  grass! °': 

"Yes  —  soft  green  grass." 
348 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Do — boys  in  heaven  —  go  in  their  bare 
feet?"  Ah,  small  mind  and  heart,  so  terrified 
and  yet  so  curious ! 

"Indeed,  yes."  And  there  on  his  knees  beside 
the  white  bed  Peter  painted  such  a  heaven  as 
no  theologue  has  ever  had  the  humanity  to 
paint  —  a  heaven  of  babbling  brooks  and 
laughing,  playing  children,  a  heaven  of  dear 
departed  puppies  and  resurrected  birds,  of 
friendly  deer,  of  trees  in  fruit,  of  speckled  fish 
in  bright  rivers.  Painted  his  heaven  with  smil- 
ing eyes  and  death  in  his  heart,  a  child's  heaven 
of  games  and  friendly  Indians,  of  sunlight  and 
rain,  sweet  sleep  and  brisk  awakening. 

The  boy  listened.  He  was  silent  when  Peter 
had  finished.  Speech  was  increasingly  an  effort. 

"I  should  —  like  —  to  go  there,"  he  whis- 
pered at  last. 

He  did  not  speak  again  during  all  the  long 
afternoon,  but  just  at  dusk  he  roused  again. 

"I  would  like  —  to  see  —  the  sentry,"  he 
said  with  difficulty. 

And  so  again,  and  for  the  last  time,  Rosa's 
soldier  from  Salzburg  with  one  lung. 

Through  all  that  long  day,  then,  Harmony 
sat  over  her  work,  unaccustomed  muscles  ach- 
ing, the  whirring  machines  in  her  ears.  Monia, 
upset  over  the  morning's  excitement,  was  irri- 

349 


table  and  unreasonable.  The  gold-tissue  cos- 
tume had  come  back  from  Le  Grande  with  a 
complaint.  Below  in  the  courtyard  all  day 
curious  groups  stood  gaping  up  the  staircase, 
where  the  morning  had  seen  such  occurrences. 

At  the  noon  hour,  while  the  girls  heated  soup 
and  carried  in  pails  of  salad  from  the  corner 
restaurant,  Harmony  had  fallen  into  the  way  of 
playing  for  them.  To  the  music-loving  Viennese 
girls  this  was  the  hour  of  the  day.  To  sit  back, 
soup  bowl  on  knee,  the  machines  silent,  Monia 
quarreling  in  the  kitchen  with  the  Hungarian 
servant,  and  while  the  pigeons  ate  crusts  on  the 
window-sills,  to  hear  this  American  girl  play 
such  music  as  was  played  at  the  opera,  her 
slim  figure  swaying,  her  whole  beautiful  face 
and  body  glowing  with  the  melody  she  made, 
the  girls  found  the  situation  piquant,  altogether 
delightful.  Although  she  did  not  suspect  it, 
many  rumors  were  rife  about  Harmony  in  the 
workroom.  She  was  not  of  the  people,  they 
said  —  the  daughter  of  a  great  American,  of 
course,  run  away  to  escape  a  loveless  marriage. 
This  was  borne  out  by  the  report  of  one  of 
them  who  had  glimpsed  the  silk  petticoat. 
It  was  rumored  also  that  she  wore  no  chemise, 
but  instead  an  infinitely  coquettish  series  of 
lace  and  nainsook  garments  —  of  a  fineness ! 

Harmony  played  for  them  that  day,  played, 
350 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

perhaps,  as  she  had  not  played  since  the  day 
she  had  moved  the  master  to  tears,  played  to 
Peter  as  she  had  seen  him  at  the  window,  to 
Jimni3r,  to  the  little  Georgiev  as  he  went  down 
the  staircase.  And  finally  with  a  choke  in  her 
throat  to  the  little  mother  back  home,  so  hope- 
ful, so  ignorant. 

In  the  evening,  as  was  her  custom,  she  took 
the  one  real  meal  of  the  day  at  the  corner 
restaurant,  going  early  to  avoid  the  crowd  and 
coming  back  quickly  through  the  winter  night. 
The  staircase  was  always  a  peril,  to  be  encoun- 
tered and  conquered  night  after  night  and  even 
in  the  daytime  not  to  be  lightly  regarded.  On 
her  way  up  this  night  she  heard  steps  ahead, 
heavy,  measured  steps  that  climbed  steadily 
without  pauses.  For  an  instant  Harmony 
thought  it  sounded  like  Peter's  step  and  she 
went  dizzy. 

But  it  was  not  Peter.  Standing  in  the  upper 
hall,  much  as  he  had  stood  that  morning  over 
the  ammunition  boxes,  thumbs  in,  heels  in, 
toes  out,  chest  out,  was  the  sentry. 

Harmony's  first  thought  was  of  Georgiev 
and  more  searching  of  the  building.  Then  she 
saw  that  the  sentry's  impassive  face  wore  lines  of 
trouble.  He  saluted.  "Please,  Fraulein." 

"Yes?" 

"I  have  not  told  the  Herr  Doktor." 
351 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I  thank  you." 

"But  the  child  dies." 

"Jimmy?" 

"He  dies  all  of  last  night  and  to-day.  To- 
night, it  is,  perhaps,  but  of  moments." 

Harmony  clutched  at  the  iron  stair-rail  for 
support.  "You  are  sure?  You  are  not  telling 
me  so  that  I  will  go  back?" 

"He  dies,  Fraulein.  The  Herr  Doktor  has 
not  slept  for  many  hours.  My  wife,  Rosa,  sits 
on  the  stair  to  see  that  none  disturb,  and  her 
cousin,  the  wife  of  the  Portier,  weeps  over  the 
stove.  Please,  Fraulein,  come  with  me." 

"When  did  you  leave  the  Siebensternstrasse?" 

"But  now." 

"And  he  still  lives?" 

"Ja,  Fraulein,  and  asks  for  you." 

Now  suddenly  fell  away  from  the  girl  all 
pride,  all  fear,  all  that  was  personal  and  small 
and  frightened,  before  the  reality  of  death. 
She  rose,  as  women  by  divine  gift  do  rise,  to 
the  crisis ;  ceased  trembling,  got  her  hat  and  coat 
and  her  shabby  gloves  and  joined  the  sentry 
again.  Another  moment's  delay  --to  secure  the 
Le  Grande's  address  from  Monia.  Then  out 
into  the  night,  Harmony  to  the  Siebenstern- 
strasse, the  tall  soldier  to  find  the  dancer  at  her 
hotel,  or  failing  that,  at  the  Ronacher  Music- 
Hall. 

352 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Harmony  took  a  taxicab  —  nothing  must  be 
spared  now  —  bribed  the  chauffeur  to  greater 
speed,  arrived  at  the  house  and  ran  across  the 
garden,  still  tearless,  up  the  stairs,  past  Rosa 
on  the  upper  flight,  and  rang  the  bell. 

Marie  admitted  her  with  only  a  little  gasp  of 
surprise.  There  was  nothing  to  warn  Peter. 
One  moment  he  sat  by  the  bed,  watch  in  hand, 
alone,  drear,  tragic-eyed.  The  next  he  had 
glanced  up,  saw  Harmony  and  went  white, 
holding  to  the  back  of  his  chair.  Their  eyes 
met,  agony  and  hope  in  them,  love  and  death, 
rapture  and  bitterness.  In  Harmony's,  plead- 
ing, promise,  something  of  doubt;  in  Peter's, 
only  yearning,  as  of  empty  arms.  Then  Har- 
mony dared  to  look  at  the  bed  and  fell  on 
her  knees  in  a  storm  of  grief  beside  it.  Peter 
bent  over  and  gently  stroked  her  hair. 

Le  Grande  was  singing;  the  boxes  were  full. 
In  the  body  of  the  immense  theater  waiters 
scurried  back  and  forward  among  the  tables. 
Everywhere  was  the  clatter  of  silver  and  steel 
on  porcelain,  the  clink  of  glasses.  Smoke  was 
everywhere  —  pipes,  cigars,  cigarettes.  Women 
smoked  between  bites  at  the  tables,  using  small 
paper  or  silver  mouthpieces,  even  a  gold  one 
shone  here  and  there.  Men  walked  up  and  down 
among  the  diners,  spraying  the  air  with  chemi- 

353 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

cals  to  clear  it.  At  a  table  just  below  the  stage 
sat  the  red-bearded  Dozent  with  the  lady  of 
the  photograph.  They  were  drinking  cheap 
native  wines  and  were  very  happy. 

From  the  height  of  his  worldly  wisdom  he  was 
explaining  the  people  to  her. 

"In  the  box  —  don't  stare,  Liebchen,  he 
looks  —  is  the  princeling  I  have  told  you  of. 
Roses,  of  course.  Last  night  it  was  orchids." 

"Last  night!   Were  you  here?"  He  coughed. 

"I  have  been  told,  Liebchen.  Each  night  he 
sits  there,  and  when  she  finishes  her  song  he 
rises  in  the  box,  kisses  the  flowers  and  tosses 
them  to  her." 

"Shameless!  Is  she  so  beautiful?" 

"No.   But  you  shall  see.    She  comes." 

Le  Grande  was  very  popular.  She  occupied 
the  best  place  on  the  program;  and  because 
she  sang  in  American,  which  is  not  exactly 
English  and  more  difficult  to  understand,  her 
songs  were  considered  exceedingly  risque.  As 
a  matter  of  fact  they  were  merely  ragtime 
melodies,  with  a  lilt  to  them  that  caught  the 
Viennese  fancy,  accustomed  to  German  senti- 
mental ditties  and  the  artificial  forms  of  grand 
opera.  And  there  was  another  reason  for  her 
success.  She  carried  with  her  a  chorus  of  a  dozen 
pickaninnies. 

In  Austria  darkies  were  as  rare  as  cats,  and 
354 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

* 

there  were  no  cats!  So  the  little  chorus  had 
made  good.  Le  Grande  was  a  good  advertiser. 
Each  day  she  walked  in  the  Prater,  ermine  from 
head  to  foot,  and  behind  her  two  by  two  trailed 
twelve  little  Southern  darkies  in  red-velvet 
coats  and  caps,  grinning  sociably.  When  she 
drove  a  pair  sat  on  the  boot. 

Her  voice  was  strong,  not  sweet,  spoiled 
by  years  of  singing  against  dishes  and  bottles 
in  smoky  music  halls;  spoiled  by  cigarettes  and 
absinthe  and  foreign  cocktails  that  resembled 
their  American  prototypes  as  the  night  re- 
sembles the  day. 

She  wore  the  gold  dress,  decolletee,  slashed  to 
the  knee  over  rhinestone-spangled  stockings. 
And  back  of  her  trailed  the  twelve  little  darkies. 

She  sang  "Dixie,"  of  course,  and  the  "Old 
Folks  at  Home";  then  a  ragtime  medley,  with 
the  chorus  showing  rows  of  white  teeth  and 
clogging  with  all  their  short  legs.  Le  Grande 
danced  to  that,  a  whirling,  nimble  dance.  The 
little  rhinestones  on  her  stockings  flashed; 
her  opulent  bosom  quivered.  The  Dozent,  eyes 
on  the  dancer,  squeezed  his  companion's  hand. 

"I  love  thee!"  he  whispered,  rather  flushed. 

And  then  she  sang  "Doan  ye  cry,  mah  honey." 
Her  voice,  rather  coarse  but  melodious,  lent 
itself  to  the  negro  rhythm,  the  swing  and  lilt 
of  the  lullaby.  The  little  darkies,  eyes  rolling, 

355 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

preternaturally  solemn,  linked  arms  and  swayed 
rhythmically,  right,  left,  right,  left.  The  glasses 
ceased  clinking;  sturdy  citizens  forgot  their 
steak  and  beer  for  a  moment  and  listened, 
knife  and  fork  poised.  Under  the  table  the 
Dozent's  hand  pressed  its  captive  affectionately, 
his  eyes  no  longer  on  Le  Grande,  but  on  the 
woman  across,  his  sweetheart,  she  who  would 
be  mother  of  his  children.  The  words  meant 
little  to  the  audience;  the  rich,  rolling  Southern 
lullaby  held  them  rapt :  - 

"  Doan  ye  cry,  mah  honey, 
Doan  ye  weep  no  mo', 
Mammy  's  gwine  to  hold  her  baby, 

All  de  udder  black  trash  sleepin'  on  the  flo', 
Mammy  only  lubs  her  boy." 

The  little  darkies  swayed;  the  singer  swayed, 
empty  arms  cradled. 

"  Doan  ye  cry,  mah  honey, 
Doan  ye  weep  no  mo'  — 

She  picked  the  tiniest  darky  up  and  held  him, 
woolly  head  against  her  breast,  and  crooned 
to  him,  rocking  on  her  jeweled  heels.  The  crowd 
applauded;  the  man  in  the  box  kissed  his  flowers 
and  flung  them.  Glasses  and  dishes  clinked 
again. 

The  Dozent  bent  across  the  table. 

"Some  day  —  "  he  said. 

The  girl  blushed. 

356 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Le  Grande  made  her  way  into  the  wings, 
surrounded  by  her  little  troupe.  A  motherly 
colored  woman  took  them,  shooed  them  off, 
rounded  them  up  like  a  flock  of  chickens. 

And  there  in  the  wings,  grimly  impassive, 
stood  a  private  soldier  of  the  old  Franz  Josef, 
blocking  the  door  to  her  dressing  room.  For 
a  moment  gold  dress  and  dark  blue-gray  uni- 
form fronted  each  other.  Then  the  sentry 
touched  his  cap. 

"Madam,"    he    said,    "the   child   is   in   th. 
Siebensternstrasse  and  to-night  he  dies." 

"What  child?"  Her  arms  were  full  of  flowers. 
'The  child  from  the  hospital.   Please  to  make 
liaste." 

Jimmy  died  an  hour  after  midnight,  quite 
peacefully,  died  with  one  hand  in  Harmony's 
and  one  between  Peter's  two  big  ones. 

Toward  the  last  he  called  Peter  "Daddy" 
and  asked  for  a  drink.  His  eyes,  moving  slowly 
round  the  room,  passed  without  notice  the  gray- 
faced  woman  in  a  gold  dress  who  stood  staring 
down  at  him,  rested  a  moment  on  the  cage  of 
mice,  came  to  a  stop  in  the  doorway,  where 
stood  the  sentry,  white  and  weary,  but  refusing 
rest. 

It  was  Harmony  who  divined  the  child's  un- 
spoken wish. 

357 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"The  manual?"  she  whispered. 

The  boy  nodded.  And  so  just  inside  the  door 
of  the  bedroom  across  from  the  old  salon  of 
Maria  Theresa  the  sentry,  with  sad  eyes  but 
no  lack  of  vigor,  went  again  through  the  Aus- 
trian manual  of  arms,  and  because  he  had  no 
carbine  he  used  Peter's  old  walking-stick. 

When  it  was  finished  the  boy  smiled  faintly, 
tried  to  salute,  lay  still. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

PETER  was  going  back  to  America  and  stil! 
he  had  not  told  Harmony  he  loved  her.  It 
was  necessary  that  he  go  back.  His  money  had 
about  given  out,  and  there  was  no  way  to  get 
more  save  by  earning  it.  The  drain  of  Jimmy's 
illness,  the  inevitable  expense  of  the  small  grave 
and  the  tiny  stone  Peter  had  insisted  on  buy- 
ing, had  made  retreat  his  only  course.  True, 
Le  Grande  had  wished  to  defray  all  expenses, 
but  Peter  was  inexorable.  No  money  earned  as 
the  dancer  earned  hers  should  purchase  peaceful 
rest  for  the  loved  little  body.  And  after  seeing 
Peter's  eyes  the  dancer  had  not  insisted. 

A  week  had  seen  many  changes.  Marie  was 
gone.  After  a  conference  between  Stewart  and 
Peter  that  had  been  decided  on.  Stewart  raised 
the  money  somehow,  and  Peter  saw  her  off,  pal- 
pitant and  eager,  with  the  pin  he  had  sent  her 
to  Semmering  at  her  throat.  She  kissed  Peter 
on  the  cheek  in  the  station,  rather  to  his  em- 
barrassment. From  the  lowered  window,  as 
the  train  pulled  out,  she  waved  a  moist  hand- 
kerchief. 

359 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I  shall  be  very  good,"  she  promised  him. 
The  last  words  he  heard  above  the  grinding  of 
the  train  were  her  cheery:  "To  America!" 

Peter  was  living  alone  in  the  Street  of  Seven 
Stars,  getting  food  where  he  might  happen  to 
be,  buying  a  little  now  and  then  from  the 
delicatessen  shop  across  the  street.  For  Har- 
mony had  gone  back  to  the  house  in  the  Woll- 
badgasse.  She  had  stayed  until  all  was  over 
and  until  Marie's  small  preparations  for  de- 
parture were  over.  Then,  while  Peter  was  at 
the  station,  she  slipped  away  again.  But  this 
time  she  left  her  address.  She  wrote:- 

:<You  will  come  to  visit  me,  dear  Peter,  be- 
cause I  was  so  lonely  before  and  that  is  un- 
necessary now.  But  you  must  know  that  I 
cannot  stay  in  the  Siebensternstrasse.  We 
have  each  our  own  fight  to  make,  and  you  have 
been  trying  to  fight  for  us  all,  for  Marie,  for 
dear  little  Jimmy,  for  me.  You  must  get  back 
to  work  now;  you  have  lost  so  much  time. 
And  I  am  managing  well.  The  Frau  Professor 
is  back  and  will  take  an  evening  lesson,  and  soon 
I  shall  have  more  money  from  Fraulein  Reiff. 
You  can  see  how  things  are  looking  up  for  me. 
In  a  few  months  I  shall  be  able  to  renew  my 
music  lessons.  And  then,  Peter,  --  the  career! 

"HARMONY." 
360 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Her  address  was  beneath. 

Peter  had  suffered  much.  He  was  thinner, 
grayer,  and  as  he  stood  with  the  letter  in  his 
hand  he  felt  that  Harmony  was  right.  He  could 
offer  her  nothing  but  his  shabby  self,  his  prob- 
lematic future.  Perhaps,  surely,  everything 
would  have  been  settled,  without  reason,  had 
he  only  once  taken  the  girl  in  his  arms,  told 
her  she  was  the  breath  of  life  itself  to  him. 
But  adversity,  while  it  had  roused  his  fighting 
spirit  in  everything  else,  had  sapped  his  con- 
fidence. 

He  had  found  the  letter  on  his  dressing- 
table,  and  he  found  himself  confronting  his 
image  over  it,  a  tall,  stooping  figure,  a 
tired,  lined  face,  a  coat  that  bore  the  impress 
of  many  days  with  a  sick  child's  head  against 
its  breast. 

So  it  was  over.  She  had  come  back  and  gone 
again,  and  this  time  he  must  let  her  go.  Who 
was  he  to  detain  her?  She  would  carry  her- 
self on  to  success,  he  felt;  she  had  youth,  hope, 
beauty  and  ability.  And  she  had  proved  the 
thing  he  had  not  dared  to  believe,  that  she 
could  take  care  of  herself  in  the  old  city.  Only 
-  to  go  away  and  leave  her  there! 

McLean  would  remain.  No  doubt  he  already 
had  Harmony's  address  in  the  Wollbadgasse. 
Peter  was  not.  subtle,  no  psychologist,  but  he 

361 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

had  seen  during  the  last  few  days  how  the  boy 
watched  Harmony's  every  word,  every  gesture. 
And,  perhaps,  when  loneliness  and  hard  work 
began  to  tell  on  her,  McLean's  devotion  would 
win  its  reward.  McLean's  devotion,  with  all 
that  it  meant,  the  lessons  again,  community 
of  taste,  their  common  youth!  Peter  felt  old, 
very  tired. 

Nevertheless  he  went  that  night  to  the 
Wollbadgasse.  He  sent  his  gray  suit  to  the 
Portier's  wife  to  be  pressed,  and  getting  out 
his  surgical  case,  as  he  had  once  before  in  the 
Pension  Schwarz,  he  sewed  a  button  on  his 
overcoat,  using  the  curved  needle  and  the  catgut 
and  working  with  surgeon's  precision.  Then, 
still  working  very  carefully,  he  trimmed  the 
edges  of  graying  hair  over  his  ears,  trimmed 
his  cuffs,  trimmed  his  best  silk  tie,  now  almost 
hopeless.  He  blacked  his  shoes,  and  the  suit 
not  coming,  he  donned  his  dressing-gown  and 
went  into  Jimmy's  room  to  feed  the.  mice. 
Peter  stood  a  moment  beside  the  smooth 
white  bed  with  his  face  working.  The  wooden 
sentry  still  stood  on  the  bedside  table. 

It  was  in  Peter's  mind  to  take  the  mice  to 
Harmony,  confess  his  defeat  and  approaching 
retreat,  and  ask  her  to  care  for  them.  Then  he 
decided  against  this  palpable  appeal  for  sym- 
pathy, elected  to  go  empty-handed  and  dis- 

362 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

cover  merely  how  comfortable  she  was  or  was 
not.  When  the  time  came  he  would  slip  out 
of  her  life,  sending  her  a  letter  and  leaving 
McLean  on  guard. 

Harmony  was  at  home.  Peter  climbed  the 
dark  staircase  —  where  Harmony  had  met  the 
little  Georgiev,  and  where  he  had  gone  down 
to  his  death  —  climbed  steadily,  but  without 
his  usual  elasticity.  The  place  appalled  him  - 
its  gloom,  its  dinginess,  its  somber  quiet.  In 
the  daylight,  with  the  pigeons  on  the  sills  and 
the  morning  sunlight  printing  the  cross  of  the 
church  steeple  on  the  whitewashed  wall,  it 
was  peaceful,  cloisterlike,  with  landings  that 
were  crypts.  But  at  night  it  was  almost  terri- 
fying, that  staircase. 

Harmony  was  playing.  Peter  heard  her 
when  he  reached  the  upper  landing,  playing  a 
sad  little  strain  that  gripped  his  heart.  He 
waited  outside  before  ringing,  heard  her  begin 
something  determinedly  cheerful,  falter,  cease 
altogether.  Peter  rang. 

Harmony  herself  admitted  him.  Perhaps  - 
oh,  certainly  she  had  expected  him !  It  would  be 
Peter,  of  course,  to  come  and  see  how  she  was 
getting  on,  how  she  was  housed.  She  held  out 
her  hand  and  Peter  took  it.  Still  no  words,  only 
a  half  smile  from  her  and  no  smile  at  all  from 
Peter,  but  his  heart  in  his  eyes. 

363 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I  hoped  you  would  come,  Peter.  We  may 
have  the  reception  room." 

:'You  knew  I  would  come,"  said  Peter. 
"The  reception  room?" 

"Where  customers  wait."  She  still  carried 
her  violin,  and  slipped  back  to  her  room  to 
put  it  away.  Peter  had  a  glimpse  of  its  poverty 
and  its  meagerness.  He  drew  a  long  breath. 

Monia  was  at  the  opera,  and  the  Hungarian 
sat  in  the  kitchen  knitting  a  stocking.  The 
reception  room  was  warm  from  the  day's  fire, 
and  in  order.  All  the  pins  and  scraps  of  the  day 
had  been  swept  up,  and  the  portieres  that  made 
fitting-rooms  of  the  corners  were  pushed  back. 
Peter  saw  only  a  big  room  with  empty  corners, 
and  that  at  a  glance.  His  eyes  were  Harmony's. 

He  sat  down  awkwardly  on  a  stiff  chair; 
Harmony  on  a  velvet  settee.  They  were  sud- 
denly two  strangers  meeting  for  the  first  time. 
In  the  squalor  of  the  Pension  Schwarz,  in  the 
comfortable  intimacies  of  the  Street  of  Seven 
Stars,  they  had  been  easy,  unconstrained.  Now 
suddenly  Peter  was  tongue-tied.  Only  one  thing 
in  him  clamored  for  utterance,  and  that  he 
sternly  silenced. 

"I  —  I  could  not  stay  there,  Peter.  You 
understood?" 

"No.    Of  course,  I  understood." 

"You  were  not  angry?" 
364 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Why  should  I  be  angry?  You  cams,  like 
an  angel  of  light,  when  I  needed  you.  Only,  of 
course,  - 

"Yes?" 

"I  '11  not  say  that,  I  think." 

"Please  say  it,  Peter!" 

Peter  writhed;  looked  everywhere  but  at 
6er. 

"Please,  Peter.  You  said  I  always  came  when 
you  needed  me,  only  - 

"Only  —  I  always  need  you!"  Peter,  Peter! 

"Not  always,  I  think.  Of  course,  when  one 
is  in  trouble  one  needs  a  woman;  but  - 

''Well,  of  course  —  but  —  I  'm  generally  in 
trouble,  Harry  dear." 

Frightfully  ashamed  of  himself  by  that  time 
was  Peter,  ashamed  of  his  weakness.  He  sought 
to  give  a  casual  air  to  the  speech  by  stooping 
for  a  neglected  pin  on  the  carpet.  By  the  time 
he  had  stuck  it  in  his  lapel  he  had  saved  his 
mental  forces  from  the  rout  of  Harmony's  eyes. 

His  next  speech  he  made  to  the  center  table, 
and  missed  a  most  delectable  look  in  the  afore- 
said eyes. 

"I  didn't  come  to  be  silly,"  he  said  to  the 
table.  "I  hate  people  who  whine,  and  I've  got 
into  a  damnable  habit  of  being  sorry  for  myself ! 
It 's  to  laugh,  is  n't  it,  a  great,  hulking  carcass 
like  me,  to  be  — 

365 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Peter,"  said  Harmony  softly,  "aren't  you 
going  to  look  at  me?" 

"I  'm  afraid." 

"That's  cowardice.  And  I've  fixed  my  hair 
a  new  way.  Do  you  like  it?" 

"Splendid,"  said  Peter  to  the  center  table. 

"You  did  n't  look!" 

The  rout  of  Harmony's  eyes  was  supplemented 
by  the  rout  of  Harmony's  hair.  Peter,  goaded, 
got  up  and  walked  about.  Harmony  was  half 
exasperated;  she  would  have  boxed  Peter's 
ears  with  a  tender  hand  had  she  dared. 

His  hands  thrust  savagely  in  his  pockets, 
Peter  turned  and  faced  her  at  last. 

"First  of  all,"  he  said,  "I  am  going  back  to 
America,  Harmony.  I  've  got  all  I  can  get  here, 
all  I  came  for — "  He  stopped,  seeing  her  face. 
"Well,  of  course,  that's  not  true,  I  haven't. 
But  I  'm  going  back,  anyhow.  You  need  n't 
look  so  stricken :  I  have  n't  lost  my  chance. 
I'll  come  back  sometime  again  and  finish,  when 
I've  earned  enough  to  do  it." 

:<  You  will  never  come  back,  Peter.  You  have 
spent  all  your  money  on  others,  and  now  you 
are  going  back  just  where  you  were,  and  —  you 
are  leaving  me  here  alone!" 

;'You  are  alone,  anyhow,"  said  Peter,  "mak- 
ing your  own  way  and  getting  along.  And 
McLean  will  be  here." 

366 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"Are  you  turning  me  over  to  him?" 

No  reply.    Peter  was  pacing  the  floor. 

"  Peter!"        -^f 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"Do  you  remember  the  night  in  Anna's  room 
at  the  Schwarz  when  you  proposed  to  me?" 

No  reply.    Peter  found  another  pin. 

"And  that  night  in  the  old  lodge  when  you 
proposed  to  me  again?" 

Peter  turned  and  looked  at  her,  at  her  slender, 
swaying  young  figure,  her  luminous  eyes,  her 
parted,  childish  lips. 

"Peter,  I  want  you  to  —  to  ask  me  again.'* 

"No!" 

"Why?" 

"Now,  listen  to  me,  Harmony.  You're  sorry 
for  me,  that's  all;  I  don't  want  to  be  pitied. 
You  stay  here  and  work.  You'll  do  big  things. 
I  had  a  talk  with  the  master  while  I  was  search- 
ing for  you,  and  he  says  you  can  do  anything. 
But  he  looked  at  me  —  and  a  sight  I  was  with 
worry  and  fright  —  and  he  warned  me  off, 
Harmony.  He  says  you  must  not  marry." 

"Old  pig!"  said  Harmony.  "I  will  marry  ii 
I  please." 

Nevertheless  Peter's  refusal  and  the  master's 
speech  had  told  somewhat.  She  was  colder,  less 
vibrant.  Peter  came  to  her,  stood  close,  looking 
down  at  her. 

367 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

"I've  said  a  lot  I  did  n't  mean  to,"  he  sail 
"There's  only  one  thing  I  haven't  said,  \ 
ought  n't  to  say  it,  dear.  I  'm  not  going  tc. 
marry  you  — - 1  won't  have  such  a  thing  on 
my  conscience.  But  it  does  n't  hurt  a  woman 
to  know  that  a  man  loves  her.  I  love  you, 
dear.  You  're  my  heaven  and  my  earth  — 
«ven  my  God,  I'm  afraid.  But  /  will  not 
'•marry  you" 

"Not  even  if  I  ask  you  to?" 

"Not  even  then,  dear.  To  share  my  strug- 
gle- 

"I  see,"  slowly.    "It  is  to  be  a  struggle?" 

"A  hard  fight,  Harmony.  I'm  a  pauper  prac- 
tically." 

"And  what  ami?" 

"Two  poverties  don't  make  a  wealth,  even 
of  happiness,"  said  Peter  steadily.  "In  the  time 
to  come,  when  you  would  think  of  what  you 
might  have  been,  it  would  be  a  thousand  deaths 
to  me,  dear." 

"People  have  married,  women  have  married 
and  carried  on  their  work,  too,  Peter." 

"Not  your  sort  of  women  or  your  sort  of 
work.  And  not  my  sort  of  man,  Harry.  I'm 
jealous  —  jealous  of  every  one  about  you. 
It  would  have  to  be  the  music  or  me." 

"And  you  make  the  choice!"  said  Harmony 
proudly.  "Very  well,  Peter,  I  shall  do  as  you 

368 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

say.    But  I  think  it  is  a  very  curious  sort  of 
love." 

"I  wonder,"  Peter  cried,  "if  you  realize 
what  love  it  is  that  loves  you  enough  to  give 
you  up." 

'You  have  not  asked  me  if  I  care,  Peter." 

Peter  looked  at  her.  She  was  very  near  to 
tears,  very  sad,  very  beautiful. 

"I'm  afraid  to  ask,"  said  Peter,  and  picking 
up  his  hat  he  made  for  the  door.  There  he 
turned,  looked  back,  was  lost. 

"My  sweetest  heart!"  he  cried,  and  took  her 
in  his  hungry  arms.  But  even  then,  with  her 
arms  about  his  neck  at  last,  with  her  slender 
body  held  to  him,  her  head  on  his  shoulder, 
his  lips  to  her  soft  throat,  Peter  put  her  from 
him  as  a  starving  man  might  put  away  food. 

He  held  her  off  and  looked  at  her. 

''I'm  a  fool  and  a  weakling,"  he  said  gravel y. 
"I  love  you  so  much  that  I  would  sacrifice  you. 
You  are  very  lovely,  my  girl,  my  girl!  As  long 
as  I  live  I  shall  carry  your  image  in  my  heart." 

Ah,  wiiat  the  little  Georgiev  had  said  on  his 
way  to  the  death  that  waited  down  the  stair- 
case. Peter,  not  daring  to  look  at  her  again, 
put  away  her  detaining  hand,  squared  his  shoul- 
ders, went  to  the  door. 

"Good-bye,  Harmony,"  he  said  steadily. 
"Always  in  my  heart!" 

869 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

Very  near  the  end  now:  the  little  Marie  on 
the  way  to  America,  with  the  recording  angel 
opening  a  new  page  in  life's  ledger  for  her  and 
a  red-ink  line  erasing  the  other;  with  Jimmy  and 
his  daddy  wandering  through  the  heaven  of 
friendly  adventure  and  green  fields,  hand  in 
hand;  with  the  carrier  resting  after  its  labors  in 
the  pigeon  house  by  the  rose-fields  of  Sofia; 
with  the  sentry  casting  martial  shadows  through 
the  barred  windows  of  the  hospital;  and  the 
little  Georgiev,  about  to  die,  dividing  his  heart, 
as  a  heritage,  between  his  country  and  a  young 

girl- 
Very  near  the  end,  with  the  morning  light 
of  the  next  day  shining  into  the  salon  of  Maria 
Theresa  and  on  to  Peter's  open  trunk  and  shabby 
wardrobe  spread  over  chairs.  An  end  of  trunks 
and  departure,  as  was  the  beginning. 

Early  morning  at  the  Gottesacker,  or  God's 
acre,  whence  little  Jimmy  had  started  on  his 
comfortable  journey.  Early  morning  on  the 
frost-covered  grass,  the  frozen  roads,  the  snap 
and  sparkle  of  the  Donau.  Harmony  had  taker 
her  problem  there,  in  the  early  hour  before 
Monia  would  summon  her  to  labor  —  took  her 
problem  and  found  her  answer. 

The  great  cemetery  was  still  and  deserted. 
Harmony,  none  too  warmly  clad,  walked  briskly, 
a  bunch  of  flowers  in  oiled  paper  against  the 

370 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

cold.  Already  the  air  carried  a  hint  of  spring; 
there  was  a  feeling  of  resurrection  and  promise. 
The  dead  earth  felt  alive  under-foot. 

Harmony  knelt  by  the  grave  and  said  the 
little  prayer  the  child  had  repeated  at  night 
and  morning.  And,  because  he  had  loved  it, 
with  some  vague  feeling  of  giving  him  comfort, 
she  recited  the  little  verse :  - 

"  Ah  well!    For  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes: 
And  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away." 

When  she  looked  up  Le  Grande  was  standing 
beside  her. 

There  was  no  scene,  hardly  any  tears.  She 
had  brought  out  a  great  bunch  of  roses  that 
bore  only  too  clearly  the  stamp  of  whence  they 
came.  One  of  the  pickaninnies  had  carried  the 
box  and  stood  impassively  by,  gazing  at  Har- 
mony. 

Le  Grande  placed  her  flowers  on  the  grave. 
They  almost  covered  it,  quite  eclipsed  Har- 
mony's. 

"  I  come  here  every  morning,"  she  said  simply. 

She  had  a  cab  waiting,  and  offered  to  drive 
Harmony  back  to  the  city.  Her  quiet  almost 
irritated  Harmony,  until  she  had  looked  once 
into  the  woman's  eyes.  After  that  she  knew. 
It  was  on  the  drive  back,  with  the  little  darky 

371 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

on  the  box  beside  the  driver,  that  Harmony 
got  her  answer. 

Le  Grande  put  a  hand  over  Harmony's. 

"I  tried  to  tell  you  before  how  good  I  know 
you  were  to  him." 

"We  loved  him." 

"And  I  resented  it.  But  Dr.  Byrne  was  right 
- 1  was  not  a  fit  person  to  —  to  have  him." 

"It  was  not  that  —  not  only  that  - 

"Did  he  ever  ask  for  me?  But  of  course 
not." 

"No,  he  had  no  remembrance." 

Silence  for  a  moment.  The  loose  windows  of 
the  cab  clattered. 

"I  loved  him  very  much  when  he  came," 
said  Le  Grande,  "  although  I  did  not  want  him. 
I  had  been  told  I  could  have  a  career  on  the 
stage.  Ah,  my  dear,  I  chose  the  career  —  and 
look  at  me!  What  have  I?  A  grave  in  the 
cemetery  back  there,  and  on  it  roses  sent  me 
by  a  man  I  loathe !  If  I  could  live  it  over  again ! " 

The  answer  was  very  close  now :  - 

"Would  you  stay  at  home?" 

"Who  knows,  I  being  I?  And  my  husband 
did  not  love  me.  It  was  the  boy  always.  There 
is  only  one  thing  worth  while  —  the  love  of  a 
good  man.  I  have  lived,  lived  hard.  And  I 
know." 

"But  supposing  that  one  has  real  ability  — 
372 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

I  mean  some  achievement  already,  and  a  prom- 
ise—" 

Le  Grande  turned  and  looked  at  Harmony 
shrewdly. 

"I  see.    You  are  a  musician,  I  believe?" 

"Yes." 

"And  — it  is  Dr.  Byrne?" 

"Yes." 

Le  Grande  bent  forward  earnestly. 

"My  child,"  she  said,  "if  one  man  in  all  the 
world  looked  at  me  as  your  doctor  looks  at  you, 
I  —  I  would  be  a  better  woman." 

"And  my  music?" 

"Play  for  your  children,  as  you  played  for 
my  little  boy." 

Peter  was  packing:  wrapping  medical  books 
in  old  coats,  putting  clean  collars  next  to  boots, 
folding  pajamas  and  such-like  negligible  gar- 
ments with  great  care  and  putting  in  his  dress- 
coat  in  a  roll.  His  pipes  took  time,  and  the 
wooden  sentry  he  packed  with  great  care  and 
a  bit  of  healthy  emotion.  Once  or  twice  he 
came  across  trifles  of  Harmony's,  and  he  put 
them  carefully  aside  —  the  sweater  coat,  a 
folded  handkerchief,  a  bow  she  had  worn  at 
her  throat.  The  bow  brought  back  the  night 
before  and  that  reckless  kiss  on  her  white 
throat.  Well  for  Peter  to  get  away  if  he  is  to 

373 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

keep  his  resolution,  when  the  sight  of  a  ribbon 
bow  can  bring  that  look  of  suffering  into  his 
eyes. 

The  Portier  below  was  polishing  floors,  right 
foot,  left  foot,  any  foot  at  all.  And  as  he 
polished  he  sang  in  a  throaty  tenor. 

"Kennst  du  das  Land  wo  die  Citronen 
bliihen,"  he  sang  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  and 
coughed,  a  bit  of  floor  wax  having  got  into  the 
air.  The  antlers  of  the  deer  from  the  wild-game 
shop  hung  now  in  his  bedroom.  When  the  wild- 
game  seller  came  over  for  coffee  there  would  be 
a  discussion  probably.  But  were  not  the  antlers 
of  all  deer  similar? 

The  Portier's  wife  came  to  the  doorway  with 
a  cooking  fork  in  her  hand. 

"A  cab,"  she  announced,  "with  a  devil's  imp 
on  the  box.  Perhaps  it  is  that  American  dancer. 
Run  and  pretty  thyself!" 

It  was  too  late  for  more  than  an  upward 
twist  of  a  mustache.  Harmony  was  at  the  door, 
but  not  the  sad-eyed  Harmony  of  a  week  before 
or  the  undecided  and  troubled  girl  of  before 
that.  A  radiant  Harmony,  this,  who  stood  in 
the  doorway,  who  wished  them  good-morning, 
and  ran  up  the  old  staircase  with  glowing  eyes 
and  a  heart  that  leaped  and  throbbed.  A  woman 
now,  this  Harmony,  one  who  had  looked  on 
life  and  learned;  one  who  had  chosen  her  fate 

374 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

and  was  running  to  meet  it;  one  who  feared 
only  death,  not  life  or  anything  that  life  could 
offer. 

The  door  was  not  locked.  Perhaps  Peter  was 
not  up  —  not  dressed.  What  did  that  matter? 
What  did  anything  matter  but  Peter  himself? 

Peter,  sorting  out  lectures  on  McBurney's 
Point,  had  come  across  a  bit  of  paper  that  did 
not  belong  there,  and  was  sitting  by  his  open 
trunk,  staring  blindly  at  it:  - 

'You  are  very  kind  to  me.   Yes,  indeed. 

"H.  W." 

Quite  the  end  now,  with  Harmony  running 
across  the  room  and  dropping  down  on  her 
knees  among  a  riot  of  garments  —  down  on 
her  knees,  with  one  arm  round  Peter's  neck, 
drawing  his  tired  head  lower  until  she  could 
kiss  him. 

"Oh,  Peter,  Peter,  dear!"  she  cried.  "I  '11 
love  you  all  my  life  if  only  you'll  love  me,  and 
never,  never  let  me  go." 

Peter  was  dazed  at  first.  He  put  his  arms 
about  her  rather  unsteadily,  because  he  had 
given  her  up  and  had  expected  to  go  through 
the  rest  of  life  empty  of  arm  and  heart.  And 
when  one  has  one's  arms  set,  as  one  may  say, 
for  loneliness  and  relinquishment  it  is  rather 

375 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

difficult  —  Ah,  but  Peter  got  the  way  of  it 
swiftly. 

"Always,"  he  said  incoherently;  "forever 
the  two  of  us.  Whatever  comes,  Harmony?'* 

"Whatever  conies." 

"And  you'll  not  be  sorry?" 

"Not  if  you  love  me." 

Peter  kissed  her  on  the  eyes  very  solemnly. 

"God  helping  me,  I'll  be  good  to  you  always. 
And  I'll  always  love  you." 

He  tried  to  hold  her  away  from  him  for  a 
moment  after  that,  to  tell  her  what  she  was 
doing,  what  she  was  giving  up.  She  would  not 
be  reasoned  with. 

"I  love  you,"  was  her  answer  to  every  line. 
And  it  was  no  divided  allegiance  she  promised 
him.  "Career?  I  shall  have  a  career.  Yours!" 

"And  your  music?" 

She  colored,  held  him  closer. 

"Some  day,"  she  whispered,  "I  shall  tell 
you  about  that." 

Late  winter  morning  in  Vienna,  with  the 
school-children  hurrying  home,  the  Alserstrasse 
alive  with  humanity  —  soldiers  and  chimney- 
sweeps, housewives  and  beggars.  Before  the 
hospital  the  crowd  lines  up  along  the  curb; 
the  head  waiter  from  the  coffee-house  across 
comes  to  the  doorway  and  looks  out.  The  sentry 

376 


The  Street  of  Seven  Stars 

in  front  of  the  hospital  ceases  pacing  and  stands 
at  attention. 

In  the  street  a  small  procession  comes  at 
the  double  quick  —  a  handful  of  troopers,  a 
black  van  with  tiny,  high-barred  windows,  more 
troopers. 

Inside  the  van  a  Bulgarian  spy  going  out  to 
death  —  a  swrarthy  little  man  with  black  eyes 
and  short,  thick  hands,  going  out  like  a  gentle- 
man and  a  soldier  to  meet  the  God  of  patriots 
and  lovers. 

The  sentry,  who  was  only  a  soldier  from 
Salzburg  with  one  lung,  was  also  a  gentleman 
and  a  patriot.  He  uncovered  his  head. 


THE    END 


3R  4 

314 

1.00 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGION, 
. 


A     000119005     7 


